//(//'"I, 


THE    MIRACLE 

E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON 


BOOKS  BY  E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON 

THE  MIRACLE 

THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

THE  CITY  OF  BEAUTIFUL  NONSENSE 

THE  WORLD  OF  WONDERFUL  REALITY 

ENCHANTMENT 

THE  FIVE-BARRED  GATE 

THE  PASSIONATE  CRIME 

ACHIEVEMENT 

RICHARD  FURLONG 

THE  ANTAGONISTS 

THE   OPEN   WINDOW 

THE  APPLE  OF  EDEN 

TRAFFIC 

THE  REALIST 

THE  EVOLUTION  OF  KATHERINE 

MIRAGE 

SALLY  BISHOP 

THE  GREATEST  WISH  IN  THE  WORLD 

THE  PATCHWORK  PAPERS 

THE  GARDEN  OF  RESURRECTION 

THE  FLOWER  OF  GLOSTER 

THIRTEEN 

180  f 


THE  MIRACLE 

BY 

E.  TEMPLE  THURSTON 

AUTHOR     OF     "THE     GREEN     BOUGH,"     "THE 
CITY       OF       BEAUTIFUL       NONSENSE,"       ETC. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  MCMXXII 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ22,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


p*nrrn>    IN    THB    UNITED    STATKS    or    AMKEICA 


SRLE 
URL 


PROLOGUE 

f  w  "y  HERE  was  a  man  came  all  the  way  from  Conne- 

t      mara,  wrote  a  poem  in  Gaelic  about  Mary  Kirwan. 

It  has  been  made  into  stilted  English  and  clumsily 

fitted  perhaps  to  some  tune  for  printed  cheaply  on  sheets  of 

paper,  some  coloured  pink,  some  green,  some  blue,  it  is  sold 

as  a  song  in  the  streets  of  Dublin,  Limerick,  and  Cork  by 

hucksters  trading  their  wares  in  the  gutter. 

Amongst  the  many  songs,  the  words  of  which  are  sold 
like  this  throughout  Ireland,  all  printed  on  flimsy  sheets  of 
coloured  paper,  it  is  not  easy  to  find.  Maybe  it  is  out  of 
print  by  now. 

The  first  verse  of  it,  in  like  character  to  the  rest,  runs 
in  this  fashion — 

"One  day  I'll  take  my  feet  down  the  hard  road,  the  long 

road, 
When  there  are  sweet  evenings   I'll  come  back  again  to 

Ardnashiela  Bay, 
For  there's  what  they  would  be  drinking  there  and  good 

talk  by  the  peatty  fires, 
And  a  pale  woman,  so  gentle  at  the  listening,  you'd  forget 

what  you  would  say." 

It  continues  like  this  in  many  verses  in  praise  of  Mary 
Kirwan,  in  one  couplet  describing  her  still  more  closely — 

"Light  had  its  way  with  her  eyes  and  times  when  she'd  be 

listening 
Her  lips  would  make  your  words  the  way  she'd  kiss  them 

for  their  thought — " 
v 


vi  PROLOGUE 

No  attention  is  paid  to  the  metre  of  the  lines  and  it  is 
difficult  to  understand  to  what  music  they  could  be  sung. 
But  as  a  picture  of  her,  they  have  no  doubt  greater  accuracy 
and  sharper  illumination  than  any  verses  more  obedient  to 
the  laws  of  true  poetry. 

A  "pale  woman"  aptly  describes  her  when  it  is  understood 
that  they  often  speak  of  a  girl  as  a  woman  in  those  parts 
of  Ireland,  alluding  more  to  her  attitude  towards  life  than  to 
her  age  or  state.  At  the  time  that  this  was  written  of  her, 
Mary  Kirwan  was  no  more  than  twenty-one.  But  to  the 
old  man  who  wrote  it,  as  he  saw  her  sitting  there  by  the 
peat  fire  in  James  Kirwan 's  kitchen,  and  observed  her — a?  he 
must  have  done — listening  to  his  tales,  she  was  no  fidgeting, 
frivolous  girl,  but  a  pale  woman  and  so  gentle  at  the  listening 
to  his  stories  of  the  world,  that,  upon  his  own  admission, 
he  often  forgot  the  thread  of  his  narrative  in  watching  her. 

There  is  something  of  a  picture,  too,  in  those  verses,  of 
the  kitchen  in  Kirwan' s  farm  at  Ardnashiela.  He  does  not 
actually  say  it  was  in  the  kitchen  he  told  his  stories,  but  any 
knowledge  of  West  of  Ireland  life  must  suppose  it. 

Without  doubt  he  was  one  of  those  travelling  men,  not 
exactly  a  tinker  and  certainly  no  vagabond.  There  are  many 
of  them  in  that  Country  who  cannot  stay  long  in  one  place. 
They  walk  the  roads  from  one  farm  to  another,  potato  dig- 
ging, helping  at  the  threshing,  making  the  corn.  Sometimes 
they  are  to  be  found  seated  by  the  fire  in  a  cottage  in  the 
far  West  and  in  return  for  a  rough  bed  on  the  floor  and 
the  food  of  the  house,  lending  their  hand  at  the  making  of 
the  kelp. 

They  ask  no  wage  for  their  labours  and  are  taken  in  more 
for  the  love  of  God  than  any  real  value  of  service.  Usually 
they  are  too  old  to  lend  more  than  a  feeble  hand,  yet  seldom 
is  a  welcome  denied  them.  For  their  usefulness  is  not  only 
on  the  land,  but  in  the  house.  They  will  drag  the  peat,  fetch 


PROLOGUE  vii 

the  water  from  the  spring,  and  at  nights  take  their  seat  in  the 
chimney  corner,  turning  the  bellows  wheel  and  telling  their 
tales. 

Doubtless  this  last  is  the  greatest  service  they  render  and 
perhaps  it  is,  when  their  tales  are  all  told  and  there  are  none 
left  to  listen,  that  they  go.  Quietly  into  their  hand  the  farmer 
slips  some  pieces  of  silver.  Into  a  cloth — sometimes  an  old 
shawl — they  tie  their  insignificant  belongings,  pick  up  the 
blackthorn  stick  which,  during  their  sojourn  in  that  place 
has  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  wall  and,  with  words  of  parting — 
"God  rest  all  here,"  or  the  like — they  set  out  down  the  road 
they  came  and  the  green  land  in  the  gray  light  of  evening 
takes  them  into  itself.  They  pass  out  of  the  life  of  that 
house  as  silently  and  unexpectedly  as  one  morning  they  came 
into  it. 

Some  are  reserved  by  nature  and  these  stay  but  a  little 
while  in  any  place.  But  mostly  they  love  the  sound  of  their 
own  voices  and  never  weary  telling  their  stories  of  Oisin 
and  Deirdre,  of  Conchubar  and  Queen  Maeve  of  the  faeries. 
And  some  there  are  that  tell  only  tales  of  the  villages,  of  those 
who  live  in  the  mountains  and  by  the  sea,  the  gossip  as  it 
were  of  Ireland,  gathered  from  one  place  to  another  where 
they  would  be  going.  Some  again  will  have  the  gossip  of 
the  world  on  the  point  of  their  tongues.  Often  are  they  those 
who  in  their  younger  days  have  crossed  the  water  in  their 
travels,  wandering  in  Scotland  and  England,  even  to  the  big 
towns,  and  taking  whatever  work  fell  to  their  hands. 

From  these,  such  stories  are  heard  as  mingle  in  an  amazing 
medley  the  mythology  of  ancient  Greece  and  all  the  visions 
of  paganism  the  world  has  ever  seen.  Impossible  it  would 
be  to  know  how  they  have  gathered  them,  inconceivable  to 
suppose  how  they  had  threaded  them  together.  Unable  fre- 
quently to  read  or  write,  their  tales  will  yet  contain  such  inci- 
dents as  are  reminiscent  of  the  wanderings  of  Aeneas  and 


viii  PROLOGUE 

his  sojourn  in  Carthage,  of  Paris  and  Helen,  Caesar  and 
Cleopatra,  Dante  and  Beatrice,  these,  as  kings  and  queens  of 
Ireland,  sometimes  even  with  common  village  names  well 
known  to  all,  will  figure  in  those  stories  they  tell  by  the  peat 
fires  at  night,  with  the  folk  of  the  house  gathered  around 
them  and  the  light  of  the  flames  lighting  up  the  listening  faces 
as  the  bellows  wheel  is  turned. 

IVithout  doubt  it  was  one  of  these  travelling  men,  work- 
ing a  season,  long  or  short,  at  Kirwan's  farm  in  Ardnashiela, 
who  must  have  written  this  poem  about  Mary,  the  daughter 
of  the  house. 

Occasionally  in  the  verses — there  are  thirteen  in  all — such 
a  phrase  as — 

" — the  lonesome,  slipping  hours, 
When  the  last  hand  shuts  the  door  against  the  fall  of  night" 

shows  with  some  felicity  the  picture  of  the  time  of  day  in 
which  his  tales  were  told.  So  also  does  another  couplet  give 
a  sight  of  him  telling  them. 

"And  beyond  the  tale  I  would  be  telling  and  the  sharp  note 

of  the  wheel 
I  could  hear  the  sea  come  always  round  the  bent  line  of  the 

strand." 

And  not  of  him  only  is  that  picture,  but  also,  to  those  who 
know  the  West  of  Ireland,  of  that  farmhouse  of  James  Kir- 
wan's, with  its  whitewashed  walls  and  its  quadrangle  of 
farmyard  in  the  square  of  linneys  and  cowsheds  that  stood 
nearly  a  mile  from  Ardnashiela  within  the  elbow  of  the  bay. 
All  the  South-West  storms  of  the  Atlantic  blow  upon  it  as  it 
stands  there  alone,  without  a  tree  to  shelter  it,  two  fields  in 
from  the  shore. 


PROLOGUE  ix 

On  stormy  nights,  this  old  song-maker  may  well  have  heard 
the  sea,  not  only  beyond  but  above  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice,  though  probably  he  would  be  the  last  to  admit  it. 

Kirwan's  is  a  lonely  place,  even  in  the  best  of  summer- 
time. The  moonlight  on  clear  nights,  shining  a  liquid  violet 
on  its  white  walls,  seems  to  isolate  rather  than  draw  it  nearer 
to  the  cluster  of  village  roofs.  Only  in  the  daytime,  with 
the  sun  upon  it  and  the  cattle  moving  in  the  yard,  the  door 
thrown  open  and  the  coming  and  going  of  the  men,  does  it 
lose  any  of  that  aloofness  which  seems  at  every  other  season 
of  the  year  and  time  of  day  to  set  it  apart  from  human 
companionship. 

He  must  have  been  glad,  that  old  travelling  man,  of  a 
listener  to  his  tales  such  as  Mary  Kirwan.  Had  he  heard 
her  story,  perhaps  he  would  have  immortalised  that  too  in  a 
rigmarole  of  verses.  But  evidently,  notwithstanding  his 
promise  to  himself,  he  never  returned  to  Ardnashicla  or 
certainly,  having  written  one  song  about  her,  just  of  herself, 
he  would  have  made  another  in  record  of  all  that  happened 
to  her. 

As  it  is,  there  is  only  this  one  line  in  the  verses  which  sug- 
gests, more  than  his  picture  of  her,  that  fate  of  Mary  Kirwan 
they  know  of  in  Ardnashiela. 

'  'Twas  herself  would  go  beyond  the  world  to  walk  the  ways 
of  life." 

That  line  needs  no  context  to  show  the  almost  emotional 
observation  of  him  who  wrote  it.  Seeing  that  he,  as  little 
as  any,  could  have  known  the  fate  of  her,  it  is  an  extraordi- 
nary vision,  especially  in  one  so  lost  in  the  self-interest  of  his 
own  stories,  as  this  old  wanderer  must  have  been. 

For  this  indeed  is  the  key-note  of  the  life  and  story  of 
Mary  Kirwan,  the  pale  woman,  with  her  white  face,  her 


x  PROLOGUE 

brown  hair  the  colour  of  loam,  though  not  so  red  as  some, 
and  those  grey  eyes  she  had,  the  grey  of  shore  pebbles  where 
the  water  washes  them. 

"Light  had  its  way  with  her  eyes — "  he  says.  She  was 
only  a  farmer's  daughter,  with  but  little  of  the  mentality  that 
education  brings  with  it,  but  it  was  true  that  light  did  have 
its  way  with  her  eyes.  And  seen,  as  he  must  most  often  have 
seen  them,  in  the  deep  orange  light  of  a  peat  fire,  doubtless 
they  had  such  depths  as  gave  him  the  real  inspiration  of 
that  line — 

"  'Twas  herself  would  go  beyond  the  world  to  walk  the  ways 
of  life." 


PART  I 


THE  MIRACLE 


THERE  are  nigh  three  miles  to  walk  from  Ardna- 
shiela  going  by  the  first  bend  of  the  bay,  across  the 
rocks  at  Curragh  and  around  the  second  curve  of 
sandy  beach  to  where,  at  Killanardrish,  the  Parish  Priest's 
house  shelters  in  the  trees.  In  that  protected  corner  they 
stand  almost  down  to  the  shore's  edge. 

Joe  Fennel,  the  fisherman,  had  walked  those  three  miles 
briskly.  With  the  lurching  gait  that  characterises  the  move- 
ments of  those  accustomed  to  the  cradling  motion  of  the 
sea,  he  had  little  appearance  of  speed.  But  it  was  a  long 
stride  he  took,  not  unlike  the  action  of  the  heavy  sweeps  he 
and  his  men  rowed  with  in  his  boat.  Determination  had  set 
his  pace  and  was  still  evident  in  his  movements  as  he  turned 
away  from  the  strand  where  it  breaks  into  the  sudden 
formation  of  deep  red  sandstone  rock,  rising  in  high  cliffs 
towards  Helvic  Head. 

Without  pause  or  hesitation,  he  took  the  path  that  leads 
from  that  corner  of  Ardnashiela  Bay  to  a  narrow  lane 
connecting  ultimately  with  the  Doonvarna  road.  Only  when 
he  reached  the  iron  gate  in  the  lane  opening  onto  the  drive 
up  to  Killanardrish  did  the  urging  purpose  that  was  in  him 
appear  to  relax  its  hold  upon  his  mind.  As  though  recording 
an  impetus  that  had  spent  itself,  his  hand  faltered  as  he 
raised  it  to  the  latch  of  the  gate;  his  eyes  were  filled  with  a 
new  consideration  and  his  brows  creased  and  straightened 

3 


4  THE  MIRACLE 

as  one  determination  gave  place  to  another  in  his  thoughts. 

He  opened  the  gate  and  swung  it  wide  on  its  iron  hinges 
in  the  loose  stone  pillar,  but  it  was  some  moments  before 
he  passed  through.  At  last,  not  so  much  from  a  final  convic- 
tion but  as  though,  having  come  so  far  it  were  a  folly  to  turn 
back,  he  entered  upon  the  drive  and  made  his  way  slowly 
up  to  the  house. 

It  was  a  large  square  building,  weather-slated,  grey  and 
repellent.  Had  he  been  able  to  see  it  from  the  gate  into 
the  drive,  its  uninviting  aspect  might  have  supplied  just  that 
slight  impression  needed  to  turn  his  mind  from  its  purpose 
and  send  him  back  to  Ardnashiela  with  his  errand  unaccom- 
plished. A  cluster  of  rhododendrons  grew  in  a  high  shield 
about  it.  The  upper  windows  were  scarcely  visible  from  the 
approach.  Behind  the  screen  of  rhododendrons  it  conveyed 
the  deceptive  suggestion  of  comfort  and  seclusion.  But 
once  the  corner  of  these  was  turned  and  the  gaunt,  grey 
building,  unrelieved  by  any  kindly  creeper,  met  the  eye, 
staring  with  its  windows — some  of  them  blind — across  to 
the  open  sea,  all  preconceived  impressions  of  homeliness  or 
comfort  were  flung  away.  It  was  bleak  and  drear — the  very 
picture  of  desolation. 

Joe  Fennel  was  not  aware  of  any  impression  from  his 
surroundings  as  he  passed  through  the  thicket  of  rhododen- 
drons and  came  in  full  view  of  the  house.  Stopping  and 
staring  at  the  building  another  fifty  yards  or  so  before  him, 
he  just  uttered  in  the  sound  of  his  breath  the  thought  that 
leapt  upon  him. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Almighty  God,"  he  muttered,  "why 
did  I  come  at  all !" 

Even  at  that  last  moment,  he  would  have  turned  and  gone 
back  to  Ardnashiela  had  not  a  window  on  the  ground  floor 
been  opened  and  a  duster  shaken  out  into  the  air.  He  turned 
at  the  sound,  when  a  sharp  voice  from  within  the  ill-lighted 


THE  MIRACLE  5 

room  informed  him  that  if  he  wanted  anything  there  was  no 
call  for  him  to  be  loitering  there. 

"Let  ye  come  to  the  door,"  called  the  voice,  with  pene- 
trating authority.  The  snap  of  the  shaken  duster,  the  sharp 
report  of  the  voice,  the  swift  clatter  of  the  window  as  it  was 
closed,  these  all  fettered  the  fisherman's  thoughts  of  retreat. 
He  crossed  the  wide  sweep  of  mossed  and  weedy  gravel  to 
the  hall  door  like  a  prisoner  to  the  summons  of  the  law. 
There,  on  the  wide  doorstep,  already  taking  off  his  soft  black 
hat  and  twisting  its  broad  brim  in  his  hands,  he  waited  until 
the  door  was  opened.  In  a  moment  or  two  the  cavernous 
hall  became  a  dark,  damp  and  musty-smelling  background 
to  the  rigid  figure  of  Father  Roche's  housekeeper. 

The  name  of  Mrs.  Sheehan  was  known  in  Ardnashiela  and 
as  far  as  Doonvarna.  Joe  Fennel  had  heard  it.  He  stood 
before  her  with  some  misgiving,  a  simple  man,  frightened 
of  women,  as  some  natures  are  frightened  of  anything 
feline.  Something  about  the  sex,  almost  deeper  than  its 
inscrutability,  made  him  at  all  times  eager  to  avoid  it.  His 
eyes  did  not  challenge,  but  fell  precipitately  before  those  of 
Mrs.  Sheehan,  wherein  there  was  no  lustre,  no  generous 
inward  light.  They  were  sharp,  cruel,  hard  as  jet,  like  a 
hen's  upon  her  nest. 

In  one  glance,  sweeping  over  Joe  Fennel  from  head  to 
foot,  she  had  weighed  him  in  the  scale  of  her  own  assessment 
and  was  demanding  what  he  wanted  in  tones  of  her  own 
valuation.  A  fisherman  from  Ardnashiela  could  want  little 
of  importance  with  the  Parish  Priest. 

"I  want  to  speak  with  himself." 

It  was  all  he  would  give  her  except  his  name. 

Forced  upon  her  duty,  she  left  him  there,  still  twisting 
his  hat  and,  sharply  closing  the  door,  she  went  to  Father 
Roche's  room. 

"There's  a  man  bi  the  name  of  Fennel,"  said  she,  "turn- 


6  THE  MIRACLE 

in'  his  hat  at  the  door  and  wantin'  to  speak  with  yeerself." 

The  whole  tone  of  the  announcement  was  intended  to 
convey  to  him  it  would  be  a  wasting  of  his  time  if  he  saw 
the  man.  She  guarded  him  closely.  In  that  gaunt,  isolated 
dwelling  he  was  her  property.  Outside  it  she  put  forth  no 
claim.  But  she  knew  the  hot  pangs  of  an  arid  jealousy  when 
any  came  to  the  door  of  the  house  at  Killanardrish,  claiming 
as  undeniable  a  right  as  her  own  to  see  him.  He  was  sub- 
limely unaware  of  this.  In  all  the  long  period  of  her  service, 
which  now  amounted  to  sixteen  years,  he  had  never  shown 
recognition  of  the  fact  that  she  was  a  human  being.  It  is 
open  to  conjecture  as  to  whether  he  ever  thought  of  her  as 
such.  It  is  doubtful  whether  she  would  have  appreciated 
it  had  he  done  so. 

He  looked  up  from  the  office  of  his  Breviary.  Her  ap- 
pearance at  the  door  was  scarcely  an  interruption.  He  was 
reading  it  with  automatic  exactitude,  saying  every  word  aloud 
in  his  mind  as  was  his  wont,  yet  in  their  well-known  familiar- 
ity hearing  none. 

"Bring  him  in  here,"  he  said,  "in  three  minutes.  And 
tell  him  to  wipe  his  boots." 

In  less  than  three  minutes  his  office  was  finished.  He 
shut  the  book  and  sat  blinking  his  pale,  grey  eyes  under  their 
thick,  white  lashes,  gazing  through  the  window  over  the 
familiar  fields  sloping  down  to  the  belt  of  trees  that  hid  the 
shore. 

In  that  same  chair,  looking  out  of  that'  window  across  the 
fields  that  never  altered,  to  the  sea  that  was  different  every 
hour,  the  old  man  had  sat  and  read  his  Breviary  at  that 
hour  every  day  for  twenty-three  years.  It  would  have 
shocked  him  considerably  by  this  time  had  any  one  told  him 
he  would  not  so  continue  to  read  it  to  the  end  of  his  days. 

In  the  loneliness  and  isolation  of  his  life  in  Killanardrish, 
habit  had  become  paramount.  He  could  not  have  relinquished 


THE  MIRACLE  7 

that  vision  of  the  sea,  yet  long  had  lost  all  consciousness  of 
its  beauty.  It  was  the  same  to  him  in  its  richest  blue  as  in 
its  clouded  green  when  the  wave  crests  snarled  and  showed 
their  teeth,  and,  breaking  across  the  bay  at  Ardnashiela  head, 
rose  grey,  like  ghosts,  and  flung  their  arms  and  vanished. 

He  was  past  a  realisation  of  the  varieties  of  nature.  If 
the  belt  of  trees,  bare  and  black  all  through  the  winter, 
one  Spring  broke  earlier  into  leaf,  he  did  not  notice  it.  Be- 
yond his  duties,  he  was  a  live  man,  dead  in  the  grey,  weather- 
slated  house,  his  body  guarded  by  an  old  woman  whose  emo- 
tions were  like  milk,  dried  to  powder  and  thickening  in  her 
blood.  Yet  she  kept  him  fiercely  to  herself,  and  as  fiercely 
he  would  have  held  to  his  habits  of  life  had  any  one  threat- 
ened to  take  them  from  him. 

Once  the  Bishop  had  intimated  that  he  might  be  moved. 

"If  ye  move  me  from  this  place,"  said  he,  "ye  may  as  well 
dig  a  hole  in  the  ground  and  have  done  with  it."  And,  after 
spending  one  day  in  his  company  in  that  remote  house  at 
Killanardrish,  the  Bishop  had  left  him  to  his  solitude,  to  his 
sloping  fields  and  his  belt  of  wind-swept  trees  and  the  wide 
bay  spreading  out  into  the  Atlantic.  Habit  had  embalmed 
him.  If  the  wrappings  had  been  taken  from  off  the  custom 
of  his  life  and  the  unexpected  air  of  change  had  penetrated 
the  substance  of  his  being,  he  would  have  fallen  apart  in  dust. 

To  this  old  man,  past  all  human  capacity  of  sympathetic 
understanding,  Joe  Fennel,  the  fisherman,  came  with  the 
secret  he  would  not  have  spoken  to  another  soul  in  the  whole 
country.  The  eagerness  of  his  confidence  had  maintained 
itself  without  abate  for  those  three  miles  along  the  strand 
from  Ardnashiela,  but,  from  the  moment  of  approaching  the 
gate  on  to  the  drive,  it  had  begun  to  leak  away.  By  the  time 
he  was  standing  in  the  big,  high-ceilinged  room,  his  boots 
wiped  to  the  sharp  order  of  Mrs.  Sheehan,  his  eyes  bewil- 
dered by  the  vastness  of  that  apartment  in  which  the  old 


«  THE  MIRACLE 

priest  seemed  awesome  in  his  loneliness,  all  feeling  of  confi- 
dence had  drained  out  of  him. 

Had  he  been  a  man  of  quick  thought  and  happy  ingenuity, 
he  would  have  called  up  some  ready  tale  and  kept  his  secret 
close.  There  were  many  who  came  over  from  Ardnashiela 
with  complaints  and  gossipings.  To  the  frosted  resentment 
of  Mrs.  Sheehan,  unconcealed  from  any  of  them,  Father 
Roche  saw  them  all.  With  three  scattered  villages  in  his 
parish,  he  had  the  broad  sense  of  his  duties.  But  Joe  Fennel 
had  none  of  the  shrewd,  inventive  qualities  of  his  race. 
When  the  old  priest  looked  up  after  the  door  had  closed 
behind  Mrs.  Sheehan,  the  fisherman  stood  in  silence  where 
she  had  left  him,  still  twisting  the  rim  of  the  soft,  black  hat 
in  his  hands  and  shifting  the  weight  of  his  body  from  one  leg 
to  another,  as  though  to  discover  an  easy  attitude  to  support 
the  discomfort  of  his  mind. 

"Well?"  said  the  Parish  Priest.  "Have  ye  come  three 
.miles  from  Ardnashiela  to  be  standin'  there  twistin'  yeer  hat  ?" 

"I  have  not." 

"What  is  it  ye  come  for?" 

"  'Twas  to  speak  to  yeerself  I  came." 

"Well,  glory  be,  man !  Here  ye  are  standin'  in  the  room 
with  me.  If  'tis  more  comfortable  ye'd  be,  sittin',  there's 
a  chair  on  yeer  left  and  a  chair  behind  ye.  I  never  knew 
there  were  so  many  chairs  in  the  room  till  I  look  at  ye 
standin'  there." 

"I'll  remain  as  I  am,"  said  Fennel,  as  though  by  taking 
a  chair,  he  feared  he  should  pledge  himself  to  that  which  as 
yet  he  felt  might  quite  possibly  never  be  said. 

Father  Roche  blinked  his  eyes  at  him.  He  was  accustomed 
to  this  behavior.  In  and  out  of  the  confessional  he  met 
it  at  every  turn  of  his  duties,  and  found  that  the  less  ready 
of  speech  they  were  who  came,  albeit  voluntarily,  to  confide 
in  him,  the  more  incumbent  it  was  upon  him  to  hear  them 


THE  MIRACLE  9 

out.  Those  who  flung  themselves  headlong  in  a  torrent  of 
words,  he  often  arrested  with  a  gesture  before  they  had  had 
time  to  become  immersed. 

Looking  at  Joe  Fennel,  whom  he  knew  vaguely  as  one 
of  his  Ardnashiela  people,  recognizing  in  the  blue  knitted 
jersey  underneath  the  short  coat,  the  occupation  he  followed, 
knowing  by  constant  contact  with  them  on  that  wild  coast 
the  simple-mindedness  of  those  who  answer  the  calling  of  the 
sea  and  sensing  that  the  man  had  something  resting  heavily 
upon  his  mind,  Father  Roche  curbed  his  impatience  a  moment 
longer  and  made  one  more  effort  to  extract  his  confidence. 

"Ye're  an  egreegious  fool,"  said  he,  "if  ye'd  come  all  this 
way  to  be  tellin'  me  what's  on  yeer  mind  and  then  not  have 
the  wits  to  be  sayin'  it." 

With  a  wrench  at  his  hat,  Fennel  sat  down  on  the  chair 
behind  him. 

"I'll  tell  ye  so,"  said  he,  and  gathered  all  the  forces  in 
himself  for  his  confession. 


II 

"TV    >fl~E   lobster   pots   are   after   being   taken  on   me." 
V/ 1         This    simple    statement    of    fact   appeared    to 

•*--*-  need  no  more  than  mere  directness  for  its  utter- 
ance, yet  Fennel  lowered  his  voice  and  spoke  upon  his  breath 
as  though  others  than  the  priest  might  hear  him. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Father  Roche  slowly,  "there's  some 
few  of  ye  in  Ardnashiela  and  up  in  the  hills  and  about,  have 
a  way  of  thinkin'  this  house  is  a  court  of  Petty  Sessions  and 
meself  the  R.M.  and  the  old  woman  outside  a  sergeant  of  the 
police  or,  maybe,  a  clerk  of  the  court  itself.  If  'tis  stealin' 
yeer  lobster  pots  they  are,  'tis  nine  miles  and  not  three  ye'd 
better  be  goin'  to  the  constabulary  in  Doonvarna.  Arn't 
they  eatin'  their  hearts  out  playin'  cards  and  fishin'  the  time 
they'd  be  waitin'  for  a  case  would  give  them  a  chance  to 
earn  their  pay." 

Fennel  moved  uncomfortably.  He  had  never  sat  upon  a 
chair  with  springs  in  the  seat  of  it  before.  After  the  hard 
chair  in  his  cottage  at  Ardnashiela,  and  the  rough  board  for 
a  seat  in  his  boat,  which  often  the  night  through  would  be 
the  only  rest  he  had,  this  luxury  of  comfort  had  little 
substance  in  it  to  support  the  discomfort  of  his  thoughts. 

'  'Tis  not  stolen  they  were,  but  taken,"  said  he,  and  watched 
the  priest's  face  and  twisted  his  hat  again  and  wished  more 
fervently  than  ever  he  had  never  come  out  to  Killanardrish. 

"Taken?" 

He  bit  the  word  short  and  said  no  more. 

10 


THE  MIRACLE  11 

The  fisherman  nodded  his  head,  waiting  uneasily  for 
the  purport  of  his  information  to  reach  the  old  man's  mind, 
tracing  the  passage  of  it  with  unwonted  observation  quick- 
ened by  fear  of  laughter. 

Father  Roche  locked  his  eyebrows  together  with  a  heavy 
frown. 

"If  'tis  the  way  ye're  comin'  here,"  he  said  deliberately, 
"an'  ye  thinkin'  I'm  one  of  those  have  lost  their  wits  believin' 
in  mad  tales  of  faeries  and  the  like,  'tis  three  miles  ye've 
walked  for  nothing  more  than  the  good  of  yeer  health. 
What  d'ye  mean — taken — man?  They're  gone,  are  they?" 

"They  are." 

"An'  'tis  the  sea  has  them — is  it  ?  Or  one  of  those  French 
trawlers  with  their  thievin*  nets?" 

"They're  taken,  I'm  sayin',"  Fennel  persisted,  obstinate, 
unyielding,  and  with  so  deep  a  conviction  as  to  make  the  priest 
realise  the  futility  of  argument.  Laughter,  truly,  was  left 
him.  Watching  the  earnest  expression  on  the  fisherman's 
face,  he  hesitated  before  he  used  it.  It  would  have  been 
effective  with  many  another.  An  instinct,  untranslated  into 
conscious  perception,  gave  him  doubt  as  to  whether  it  would 
be  effective  here.  Had  it  been  fear  that  had  brought  the 
fisherman  there  to  Killanardrish,  laughter  was  an  excellent 
antidote  for  fear.  Whenever  it  came  to  his  notice,  smiting 
its  victim  on  dark,  mountain  roads,  leaping  out  in  bleak 
farms,  echoing  in  sounds  of  horses'  hoofs,  he  laughed  with- 
out mercy,  a  discordant  note  of  laughter.  None  cared  to 
hear  it,  and  those  who  did,  never  confessed  a  belief  in  the 
"gentry"  to  him  again.  He  had  come  to  believe  that  with 
that  laughter  he  was  driving  ignorance  and  superstition  out 
of  his  parish.  He  had  so  much  as  boasted  of  it  to  the  Bishop. 
Yet  here,  scrutinizing  the  steady  gaze  of  Joe  Fennel,  the 
fearless  eye  with  its  glitter  of  simple  faith,  he  debated  whether 
it  were  wise  to  use  it. 


12  THE  MIRACLE 

"What  is  it  ye  want  ?"  he  asked.  "Why  have  ye  come  out 
here  to  me  in  the  name  of  God?  'Tisn't  because  a  priest 
has  his  orders  taken,  he  can  be  doin'  tricks  would  beat  the 
cuteness  of  the  constabulary  in  Doonvarna.  Shure,  I  can't 
help  ye,  man!  If  yeer  pots  are  gone — they're  gone!  Let 
ye  be  makin'  new  ones  and  that's  the  best  advice  I  can  be 
givin'  ye.  Was  it  the  whole  of  them  was  gone  in  one  night — 
or  what  was  it?" 

The  fisherman  gripped  his  hat  and  told  his  story  of  a 
night  on  the  sea  washed  pale  with  moonlight,  when  himself 
and  another  of  his  men,  spinning  for  mackerel,  had  seen  a 
cluster  of  black  birds  as  big  as  solan  geese,  flying  round  about 
the  boat.  They  mewed  like  cats,  he  said,  and  the  sound  of 
the  wind  in  their  wings  as  they  beat  about  in  circles  was 
the  sound  of  voices  and  they  all  singing  together  with  lips 
closed,  like  a  host  of  people  would  be  humming  or  moaning 
or  keening,  maybe,  for  the  dead. 

Father  Roche  sat  and  listened,  bushing  his  white  eyebrows 
like  grass  tufts  haired  with  frost,  lacing  his  fingers  and  unlac- 
ing them,  and  every  few  moments  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff 
from  a  black,  horn  box  he  kept  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  rat- 
tling it  in  his  nostrils  and  automatically  brushing  away  the 
fine  stream  of  dust  that  settled  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

Laughter,  he  knew,  would  be  of  no  service  here.  It  was 
not  eagerly  the  story  was  being  told  him.  He  detected  no 
sense  of  a  mind  weighted  with  self-importance,  anxious  to 
impress  the  wonder  of  its  experiences.  Here  was  a  man  in 
a  deep  earnestness  of  faith,  wrestling  with  the  unknown  in 
the  wilderness.  The  loss  of  the  lobster  pots  was  not  his 
complaint.  The  cluster  of  black  birds  with  the  moaning 
sound  of  the  wind  in  their  wings  was  not  wholly  his  story. 
Sitting  there  on  that  chair  in  the  priest's  high-ceilinged 
room,  the  lumps  of  the  knuckles  on  his  hands  rising  and 
working  like  knots  of  cord  as  he  twisted  his  hat,  his  blue 


THE  MIRACLE  la 

eyes  deepened  in  their  blue  with  the  weather  tan  of  his  skin, 
his  mouth,  clean-shaven,  opened  sometimes  like  a  child's  in 
wonder  and  at  times  closed  tight  with  the  mere  strength 
of  man  in  him  that  saw  no  fear  in  a  stormy  sea  or  any  of  the 
visible  terrors  of  life,  he  was  more  than  just  a  fisherman 
telling  a  superstitious  tale  of  hardship. 

Some  sense  of  this  kept  the  laughter  from  the  priest's  lips. 
He  could  no  more  have  laughed  here,  than  he  would  have 
laughed  at  a  heathen  in  obeisance  before  his  idols  of  wood 
and  stone.  What  could  laughter  do  but  scatter  fear?  And 
that  was  the  only  treatment  he  knew.  He  sat  back  in  his 
chair  and  stared  at  Fennel. 

"What  happened  the  birds?"  he  asked.  The  suggestion 
that  they  might  be  cormorants,  magnified  in  that  moonlight 
in  the  mind  of  a  superstitious  fisherman,  was  worth  no  more 
than  instant  dismissal.  He  must  know  too  well  the  sight  of 
cormorants  to  be  deluded  like  that.  Some  strange  birds  he 
had  seen.  The  priest  felt  no  doubt  of  that;  yet  it  was  not 
that  which  seemed  to  matter  so  much  as  the  reaching  out 
of  the  man's  mind  to  touch  the  unknown  meaning  he  at- 
tached to  them. 

"What  happened  the  birds?"  he  repeated. 

Fennel  laid  his  hat  down  on  the  ground  between  his  feet. 

"They  cruishted  on  the  water,"  said  he,  "in  a  black  mass." 

"Well?" 

"Shure,  we  pulled  up  the  lines  an'  we  rowin'  over  to  the 
place  to  see  what  birds  they  were." 

"What  were  they?" 

"There  were  no  birds  at  all." 

He  raised  his  head  and  said  it  squarely.  There  was  the 
worst  of  it  and  in  the  sureness  of  his  mind,  the  worst  of  it 
was  the  truth.  He  could  of  course  make  new  lobster  pots. 
Had  he  not  learnt  how  to  twist  sally  stems  into  baskets  and 
pots  when  he  was  a  child,  sitting  on  the  sea  wall?  It  wa 


14  THE  MIRACLE 

not  new  lobster  pots  he  wanted,  or  any  recompense  for  the 
catch  he  had  lost.  What  power  was  there  to  face  and  defeat 
this  unknown  and  unknowable  beyond  which,  if  not  in  sus- 
pense around  the  lives  of  every  one,  he  had  reason  to  know 
well  was  surely  about  his  own  ?  This  was  his  quest  to  Killan- 
ardrish.  The  Holy  Church  had  that  power — the  power  of 
blessing  and  cursing.  In  some  way  of  faith,  like  a  child  to 
hide  its  head  in  its  mother's  lap,  he  had  come  out  those  three 
miles  for  the  priest  to  protect  him. 

"There  were  no  birds,"  he  repeated.  "There  was  the  water 
lickin'  the  boat,  and  the  moonlight  quiverin'  on  it  an'  it  still 
and  empty  like  water  ye'd  be  takin'  up  in  the  cup  of  yeer 
hands." 

Father  Roche  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  to  the 
window,  looking  down  the  fields  to  the  sea.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments, without  a  thought  in  his  mind,  he  watched  a  storm, 
as  countless  times  he  had  seen  it,  gathering  up  out  of  the 
limitlessness  of  the  Atlantic. 

"What's  that  got  to  do  with  yeer  lobster  pots?"  he  asked 
presently  without  turning. 

"They  were  in  that  place,"  said  Fennel,  "and  the  next 
mornin'  when  we  pulled  out  round  the  third  head  to  be 
gatherin'  them,  they  were  gone." 

"Mightn't  they  have  drifted?" 

"They  had  not.  Weren't  the  corks  there  floatin'  on  the 
water?" 

"Then  one  of  those  French  trawlers  had  them." 

"There's  been  no  trawlers  on  this  coast  these  three  weeks." 

Father  Roche  came  back  to  where  Fennel  was  sitting. 
The  fisherman  rose  to  his  feet  and  the  two  men  stood  looking 
at  each  other. 

"I've  a  curate  is  in  Ardnashiela,"  said  the  priest.  "Why 
didn't  ye  go  to  Father  Costello  to  be  tellin'  him  yeer  tale? 
Bi  all  accounts  he  has  an  ear  to  be  listenin'  to  the  mad 


THE  MIRACLE  15 

fancies  of  folk  in  these  parts.  "Tis  a  softer  heart  he  has 
than  meself.  Why  didn't  ye  go  to  him?" 

The  fisherman  gave  the  honest  and  simple  reason  that  had 
driven  him  to  Father  Roche's  confidence.  It  was  the  power 
of  the  Church  he  came  to,  he  said.  And  was  not  the  Parish 
Priest  out  at  Killanardrish  nearer  the  head  of  it  then  his 
curate  in  Ardnashiela?  Had  the  Bishop  been  as  near  as  ten 
miles,  would  he  not  have  gone  to  him? 

A  smile  that  lent  him  a  moment's  understanding  twitched 
the  corner  of  Father  Roche's  lips. 

"Ye're  after  tryin'  to  make  me  believe,"  said  he,  "there 
are  things  outside  the  world  we  don't  know  the  meaning 
of.  Ye  might  as  well  try  and  make  me  believe  if  I  put  me 
hands  down  on  the  floor  and  threw  up  me  legs  I  could  stand 
on  me  head.  I  couldn't  do  it.  And  I'll  believe  nothing  but 
what  the  Holy  Church  teaches  me  to  believe.  And  that's 
all  I'm  here  for.  To  teach  ye  the  same.  'Tis  not  believin' 
in  strange  things'll  help  ye  in  this  world.  Let  ye  go  back 
to  Ardnashiela  and  think  of  the  miracle  of  our  Lord's  birth 
and  death  and  resurrection  and  that'll  be  enough  to  occupy 
yeer  mind  the  time  ye're  making  a  set  of  bran  new  pots 
will  catch  half  the  lobsters  in  the  bay." 

It  was  the  soundest  wisdom  he  could  offer.  It  was  the 
only  wisdom  he  knew — the  habitual  wisdom  of  his  life. 
In  his  youth  he  had  never  questioned  it,  and  every  year 
added  to  the  improbability  that  he  ever  would.  He  had  indeed 
grown  to  resent  those  events  in  life  which  troubled  his  wisdom 
and  continued  to  suggest  to  his  mind  that  all  meaning  might 
possibly  not  be  encompassed  in  the  miracles  of  the  New 
Testament. 

To  reassure  Fennel's  mind  no  less  than  to  soothe  his  own, 
he  laid  his  hand  in  a  fatherly  fashion  on  the  fisherman's 
shoulder. 


16  THE  MIRACLE 

"Let  ye  go  back  to  Ardnashiela,"  said  he,  "there's  a 
storm  is  comin'  up  will  have  ye  a  drowned  man  before  ye 
get  yeer  head  under  yeer  roof." 

"Will  ye  come  and  say  a  btessin'  over  me  new  pots  when 
I  have  'em  made?" 

"I  will  not." 

"What'll  be  the  good  of  me  puttin'  em  out  so  and  they 
taken  on  me?" 

Father  Roche  threw  up  his  hands  and  brought  them  down 
with  a  clatter  against  the  skirt  of  his  coat. 

"I  dunno  what's  come  to  some  of  ye  in  these  parts!"  he 
exclaimed.  "Isn't  it  enough  for  ye  to  be  believin'  the  mir- 
acles of  the  Almighty  God!  Shure,  there's  James  Kirwan 
at  me  always  to  be  sprinklin'  the  corners  of  his  fields  with 
the  Holy  Water,  and  wouldn't  I  be  admittin'  the  pow- 
ers of  darkness  and  faeries  and  God  knows  what  if  I  did 
that!" 

Fennel  stooped  and  picked  up  his  hat  and  without  another 
word  he  went  to  the  door.  As  he  opened  it,  he  turned 
round. 

"If  ye  weren't  an  old  man,  Father,"  said  he,  "I'd  take 
ye  out  the  length  of  one  night  in  me  boat  the  time  ye'd  be 
comin'  to  find  there  was  strange  power  in  the  darkness  and 
a  world  of  things  ye  wouldn't  know  or  see  or  hear  with  no 
more'n  a  wisp  of  the  air  between  ye." 

In  a  long  pause  they  looked  at  each  other  and  then, 
before  the  priest  could  answer  to  shatter  the  silence  with 
common  sense  and  rhetoric,  Fennel  had  passed  out  of  the 
room  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

The  old  man  stood  for  a  while  looking  at  the  closed  door 
before  he  went  back  to  his  chair  by  the  window.  There  he 
sat,  with  his  hands  met  and  locked  on  his  snuff-stained 
waistcoat.  He  blinked  his  eyes  under  their  white  lashes, 


THE  MIRACLE  17 

watching  the  approaching  storm  heaping  up  out  of  the  South 
West  as  he  had  so  often  seen  it  before,  and  accepted  its 
coming  as  surely  and  unthinkingly  as  he  accepted  the  Immac- 
ulate Conception  of  the  Virgin  Mary. 


m 

FENNEL  found  his  way  to  the  door  in  the  cavernous 
hall,  drawing  his  breath  with  a  deeper  freedom  once 
he  had  opened  it  and  passed  out  into  the  daylight. 
In  that  house  with  its  fastened  windows,  its  curtains  and 
closed  doors,  the  very  presence  of  air  and  light  seemed  to 
have  been  forbidden.  His  senses  had  not  been  alive  to  this. 
He  had  not  been  conscious  of  the  musty  odours  that  clung 
heavily  with  the  pervading  damp  to  every  carpet  and  curtain 
and  even  to  the  wall-papers  themselves  in  Father  Roche's 
house  at  Killanardrish.  Such  perceptions  as  he  had  were 
not  tuned  to  subtleties  like  these.  In  that  interview  with 
the  Parish  Priest  he  had  felt  only  the  presence  of  the  irre- 
vocable barrier  between  the  ritual  of  the  Church  and  this 
enveloping  belief  in  a  world — beyond  that  wisp  of  the  air, 
as  he  had  described  it — which  surrounded  him. 

It  was  only  when  the  outer  air  was  again  on  his  face 
and  the  salt  sting  of  it  once  more  in  his  lungs,  that  he  knew 
in  a  dull  consciousness  how  oppressing  that  barrier  had  been. 
Believing  surely  the  power  of  a  priest  of  God  could  defend 
and  protect  him  with  a  greater  magic  than  any  in  that  other 
world  about  him,  he  had  come  out  there  to  Killanardrish  with 
a  simple  faith  in  which  there  was  no  questioning.  All  he 
knew  now  was  that  it  had  failed  him.  It  might  have  ex- 
plained. But  it  had  explained  nothing.  With  its  great  wis- 
dom and  learning  it  might  have  protected  him  from  the 
maliciousness  of  that  power  he  felt  had  chosen  him  for  its 
sport.  It  had  even  refused  him  this. 

He  walked  across  the  unweeded  gravel  to  the  open  way 

18 


THE  MIRACLE  19 

through  the  thicket  of  rhododendrons,  unconscious  of  the 
sharp  eyes  of  Mrs.  Sheehan  watching  him  from  the  lower 
windows.  Down  the  whole  length  of  the  drive  to  the  iron 
gate  in  the  loose  stone  wall  and  out  into  the  boreen  he 
passed  with  his  lurching  stride,  lost  in  his  mind  as  a  dog  is 
lost  in  the  streets.  He  was  wandering  aimlessly  from  one 
incomplete  and  inarticulate  thought  to  another.  The  priest 
would  not  put  a  blessing  on  his  lobster  pots.  Then  of  what 
use  was  his  fishing  to  him  with  the  spell  that  was  set  against 
him?  To  himself  he  was  like  one  whom  Fate  has  singled 
out  for  the  play  of  her  power  over  the  lives  and  ways  of 
man.  Yet  of  Fate  he  knew  nothing  beyond  the  characteristic 
expression  of  the  people  in  those  parts,  "It'll  all  be  the  same 
in  a  hundred  years."  If  that  was  Fate,  he  knew  it,  but  had 
no  other  term  for  it  than  this. 

But  of  the  strange  and  little  people,  inhabiting  that  prox- 
imitous  world  beyond  the  thin  veil  of  time  and  space,  he 
knew  all  they  all  knew  in  those  wild  parts  of  the  land.  He 
knew  their  malice,  their  mischief  and  those  good  services 
they  had  been  known  to  do.  But  how  could  they  be  pleased  ? 
And  what  angered  them?  Only  the  priest  with  his  Holy 
Water,  with  the  blessing  or  the  curse  he  had  could  help 
him.  And  if  the  Father  would  not  protect  him  against  their 
molesting  will,  what  could  he  do?  There  was  nothing  to  be 
done.  If  they  had  singled  him  out,  then,  like  many  another 
he  had  known  of,  they  would  have  the  sport  of  their  ways 
with  him  as  they  wished. 

Down  the  lane  to  the  shore  where  the  beaten  oaks  and 
hawthorns  hid  the  light,  he  walked  with  himself  in  an 
impenetrable  darkness.  It  was  not  until  by  the  footpath 
through  the  trees  he  came  out  on  to  the  shore  and,  beyond  the 
sand  of  the  bay  and  the  jagged  green  line  of  threatening  sea, 
he  saw  the  storm  gathering  in  its  welter  of  inky  clouds, 
that  he  found  the  return  of  possession  in  himself. 


20  THE  MIRACLE 

Here  was  a  power  he  knew  and  felt  no  need  of  the  hand 
of  God  to  wrestle  with.  The  very  sight  of  the  heaping 
clouds  braced  a  conscious  courage  in  him.  The  rising  wind 
struck  saltly  on  his  teeth  as  his  lips  parted.  That  fore- 
boding of  the  storm,  which  to  so  many  carries  with  it  a  sense 
of  impending  disaster,  lifted  the  spirit  to  an  exhaltation  in 
him.  He  turned  towards  Ardnashiela,  knowing  well  the 
Parish  Priest  had  spoken  with  no  exaggeration  when  he  had 
said  he  would  be  a  drowned  man  before  he  could  get  his 
head  beneath  his  roof. 

He  had  passed  the  sharp  jetty  of  rocks  at  Curragh,  where 
a  scatter  of  cottages  gives  that  desolate  place  the  dignity 
of  a  name,  before  the  first,  leaping  flash  of  lightning  ripped 
up  the  belly  of  the  clouds  and  forked  into  the  sea.  Almost 
like  a  song  in  his  ears  the  thunder  spoke  out  after  it.  This 
was  music  of  a  world  he  knew,  less  terrible  to  him  than  the 
music  of  the  wind  he  had  heard  that  night  in  the  wings  of  the 
circling  birds. 

He  lifted  his  head  as  he  listened  to  it  rolling  between  the 
headlands.  Wind  and  the  sweeps  of  spray  across  his  face 
were  more  real  than  thoughts.  All  the  time  he  had  been 
talking  to  the  priest,  it  was  a  mere  passing  of  dull  sensations 
he  had  had,  not  so  much  as  born  into  any  form  of  thought. 
Sensation  was  dull  in  him  no  longer  now.  There  was  a 
wind  to  lean  against  and  thunder  that  sounded  less  confusing 
than  words  in  his  ears.  Above  his  head  the  shrieking  gulls 
with  toiling  wings  were  climbing  the  hills  of  the  gale  to 
turn  upon  the  summit  and  scatter  back  like  wisps  of  sea 
foam  blown  across  the  land.  Thickened  to  muddy  green 
with  the  sand  they  churned,  the  waves  came  flinging  their 
scum  up  the  shore,  grinding  the  pebbles  and  leaving  the 
brown  sea-weed  in  dank  masses,  a  dark  line  along  the  strand. 

In  all  that  two-miled  stretch  of  sandy  beach,  his  was  the 
only  human  figure  to  be  seen,  yet  there  was  less  loneliness 


THE  MIRACLE  21 

in  his  soul  than  when  he  was  standing  in  the  company  of 
Father  Roche  in  that  room  at  Killanardrish. 

It  was  as  he  neared  James  Kirwan's  farm,  the  only 
habitation  between  Curragh  and  Ardnashiela,  that  the  first 
rain  fell,  splashes  that  buried  in  the  sand  and  hit  his  face 
and  dropped  with  a  loud  noise  upon  his  hat. 

With  a  swift  calculation,  he  measured  the  mile  and  more 
it  was  to  Ardnashiela,  creeping  in  to  the  cliff  side  where  the 
strand  broke  into  the  sandstone  rock  as  upon  the  further 
side  of  the  bay.  With  a  quick  eye  he  plumbed  the  depth  of 
rain  to  come  out  of  the  clouds  heaped  up  in  leaden  masses 
to  the  horizon's  edge. 

"  'Tis  a  drowned  man  I'd  be  entirely,"  he  said  aloud  and 
turned  with  his  thought  to  the  broken,  loose  stone  wall 
James  Kirwan  built  about  his  field,  a  feeble  protest  against 
the  ever-increasing  hunger  of  the  sea. 

In  the  linneys  and  sheds  that  formed  the  square  of  the 
farmyard  before  the  long,  thatched,  one-storeyed  house,  he 
would  find  a  place  for  shelter.  There  was  no  wish  in  him, 
a  shy  and  timid  man,  to  be  going  into  the  house  itself, 
where  maybe  there  would  be  company,  and  it  was  only  the 
farmer,  James  Kirwan,  he  had  slight  acquaintance  with. 

The  gate  into  the  yard  cried  a  rusty  tune  as  he  opened 
it.  At  any  time  they  might  have  heard  that  in  the  house, 
but  the  rain  now  was  sheeting  upon  the  thatch  in  a  roar  of 
water  and  every  moment  the  lightning  rushed  down  the 
black  fields  of  the  sky  with  the  thunder  leaping  an  instant 
after,  shaking  the  ground  with  the  noise  of  it. 

A  cobbled  path  in  front  of  the  house,  passing  the  windows 
and  the  door,  led  to  a  shed  where  they  cut  the  chafiV  It 
communicated  in  a  procession  of  doors  through  stables 
around  the  whole  range  of  buildings,  enclosing  the  accumula- 
tion of  mire  in  the  farmyard.  He  could  have  chosen  that 
way  and  saved  his  feet  from  the  muck  of  the  yard,  but  they 


22  THE  MIRACLE 

would  have  seen  him  passing  the  windows.  Instead  he 
walked  through  the  heavy  manure,  with  the  brown  liquid 
sucking  around  his  boots,  till  he  came  to  the  first  door  in  one 
of  the  sheds.  He  opened  it  and  went  in. 

It  was  a  cow-shed  with  three  beasts  tettered,  nibbling  the 
loose  hay  in  their  troughs  and  fretting  for  the  meal  due  to 
them  at  the  approach  of  the  milking  hour.  He  closed  the 
door  and  stood  shaking  the  water  off  his  hat,  brushing  it  too 
from  his  coat  with  a  distaste  for  the  wetness  of  rain. 

Five  empty  stalls  there  were.  It  was  a  long  shed.  James 
Kir  wan  could  supply  such  demand  as  there  was  in  Ardna- 
shiela,  and,  with  three  cows  only,  keep  enough  for  their  needs 
in  the  house.  In  two  of  the  empty  stalls,  loose  hay  was 
thrown  ready  for  the  cows'  feeding.  Fennel  sat  down  on  a 
truss  of  it  cut  solid  from  the  stack  and  listened  to  the  rain 
and  the  rush  of  the  rivers  it  made  in  the  narrow  gutters,  in- 
capable of  holding  that  sudden  volume  of  water,  spilling  it  in 
loud  streams  into  the  yard  outside. 

With  the  walls  of  the  building  about  him,  the  thoughts 
of  his  errand  to  Killanardrish,  of  what  the  priest  had  said 
and  the  waste  of  his  walking,  came  back  in  a  slow  current 
to  his  mind.  With  no  clear  knowledge  of  what  it  meant 
or  how  now,  with  the  spell  that  was  against  him,  he  was 
to  turn  his  face  out  to  the  sea  again  for  his  fishing,  he  sat 
there  dwelling  upon  the  words  of  Father  Roche  and  the 
things  that  had  happened  him. 

As  he  sat  there,  the  soft,  sweet  scent  of  the  cows  crept 
in  with  his  breath  and  lingered  in  his  nostrils  and  he  felt 
it  mattered  little  what  way  he  was  treated  by  the  world, 
if  there  were  kindness  only  coming  to  him  that  would  help 
him  to  be  bearing  the  sorrows  of  life.  For  it  seemed  he 
knew  then,  as  he  had  never  known  before,  that  he  was  a 
lonely  man  in  his  cottage  on  the  cliff  in  Ardnashiela  and 
there  was  little  use  in  the  success  of  his  fishing  and  the 


THE  MIRACLE  23 

money  he  had  saved  if  in  the  end  he  was  to  be  put  away  in 
death  below  the  grass  in  the  graveyard  on  the  top  of  the  hill. 

If  there  were  melancholy  in  these  thoughts,  there  was  a 
certain  pleasure  too  he  took  in  their  sadness  and  it  was 
not  the  pleasure  of  pity  for  his  loneliness,  because  with  his 
timidity  he  had  always  sought  to  be  alone.  More  it  was  he 
felt  that  if  life  could  have  so  much  sorrow  in  it,  there  must 
somewhere  be  as  great  joy  and  if  it  were  never  his  lot  to 
find  it,  still  it  was  there.  As  he  breathed  in  the  air,  sweetened 
in  that  place  with  the  scent  of  hay  and  the  breath  of  the 
cows,  a  kindness  of  life,  it  seemed,  was  not  far  from  him 
then.  Wherever  it  was,  could  he  hold  it,  it  would  not  be 
mischief  or  malice  the  faeries  would  be  putting  upon  him, 
but  a  good  heart  for  his  fishing  and  a  peace  when  death 
came  for  him  to  be  lying  down  under  the  grass. 

It  was  the  sound  of  a  door  being  swung  on  uneven 
hinges  and  footsteps  at  the  far  end  of  the  shed  that  startled 
him  out  of  the  wandering  of  his  mind  and  brought  him,  stand- 
ing softly  to  his  feet,  to  see  who  it  was. 

A  girl  had  come  with  a  bucket  and  stood  to  milk  the 
cows.  Slipping  her  body  in  between  their  heavy  carcasses  to 
give  them  their  evening  meal,  she  was  half  hidden  at  first. 
He  stood  in  silence  watching  her.  Presently  she  emerged. 
Completely  unaware  of  his  presence  there  at  the  further  end 
of  the  shed,  she  sat  down  on  the  stool,  leaning  her  cheek 
against  the  first  submissive  beast,  and  began  her  work. 

Between  the  hammer  blows  of  thunder,  he  stood  listening 
to  the  squirting  of  the  milk  into  the  bottom  of  the  pail,  a 
muted  note  to  mingle  with  the  hiss  of  rain  upon  the  thatch. 
It  had  a  sweet  sound  and  of  the  same  kindness  that  had 
come  into  his  thoughts. 

With  the  tilted  bucket  gripped  between  her  knees,  he 
could  see  only  the  lower  part  of  her  body  beneath  the  belly 
of  the  cow.  A  small  black  dog  of  uncertain  breed,  small  as 


24  THE  MIRACLE 

a  large  terrier  but  with  the  head  and  long  coat  of  a  sheep 
dog,  was  lying  by  the  side  of  her.  It  had  the  contented  air 
of  being  conscious  of  her  companionship  and  lay  quite  still. 
Occasionally  it  would  raise  an  eye  as  though  the  sight  of  her 
were  a  satisfaction.  With  a  fascination  that  had  no  curiosity 
for  herself,  Fennel  stood  there,  silent  and  motionless,  watch- 
ing the  rhythmic  play  of  her  hands  and  the  twin  streams  of 
milk  they  guided  dexterously  into  the  pail. 

Sense  of  time  passed  away  from  him.  The  storm  crossed 
over  their  heads,  travelling  inland.  He  did  not  hear  the 
sound  of  the  thunder  retreating  into  the  distance.  Only  the 
long  spurts  of  milk  grew  a  clearer  note  and  the  clasping  and 
unclasping  motion  of  her  hands  fixed  his  eyes  the  more  and 
held  them  to  their  watching. 

He  was  quite  unprepared  when,  with  the  first  cow  milked, 
she  rose  to  her  feet  and,  coming  round  the  hind-quarters 
of  that  beast  to  the  next,  she  faced  and  saw  him  standing 
there. 

He  had  seen  her  before.  It  was  Mary  Kirwan,  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  house.  He  had  seen  her  in  the  street  of  Ardna- 
shiela,  seen  her  as  he  saw  all  women  in  any  place  and  strode 
by  them  lifting  no  eye  to  look.  Now,  alone  in  the  shed,  in 
the  spell  of  her  hands  he  had  been  watching,  he  looked  full 
at  her  and  saw  the  pale  face  and  the  grey  eyes  below  the 
brown  hair,  and  the  lips  parted  in  a  live  astonishment. 

It  was  then  in  a  revelation,  he  beheld  the  kindness  of  life 
that  was  near  to  him,  the  power,  closer  than  a  priest's 
blessing,  that  would  give  him  a  good  heart  for  his  fishing 
and  bring  that  peace  when  death  came  for  him  to  be  lying 
down  under  the  grass. 


IV 

'TTT'S    a    fine    shtorm,"    he    said   awkwardly,    intending 

that  remark  to  explain  his  presence  there  in  her 

father's  cow-shed.    As  such  she  must  have  accepted 

it,  for  she  settled  her  stool  by  the  side  of  the  second  beast, 

continuing  with  her  milking  and  telling  him  he  would  have 

done  better  for  himself  had  he  gone  into  the  house  where 

there  was  a  fire  burning  and  company,  and  a  kettle  over  it 

ready  for  the   fresh  tea  they  would  be  having  when  the 

milk  was  come  in. 

He  listened  to  the  sound  of  her  voice  more  than  to  the 
words  she  said,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  thank  her  for 
hospitality.  For  the  sound  of  it  to  him  was  one  with  the 
scent  of  that  place,  with  the  music  of  the  milk  purring  in 
the  pail,  the  contentful  rattle  of  the  cow  chains,  and  the  soft 
constant  note  of  the  beasts  at  their  feeding  that  all  had  inoc- 
ulated his  mind  with  this  new  sense  of  a  kindness  in  the  world. 

When  they  began  their  speaking,  he  had  left  the  end  of 
the  shed  where  he  was  standing  and  come  a  few  steps  nearer 
where  she  was  at  her  work.  There  he  leant  with  his  arms 
on  one  of  the  partitions  of  the  stalls  to  make  it  seem  he 
was  easy  in  himself  to  be  talking  to  her  and  because  he 
wanted  to  be  talking  to  her  then  more  than  doing  anything 
else  at  all. 

"  'Tis  the  first  time  ever  I  see  a  young  girrl  milking," 
he  said  presently,  for  there  was  not  much  they  had  to  say  to 
each  other  in  those  first  moments  after  she  had  made  him  her 
invitation  to  the  house  and  he  had  scarcely  heard  what  it  was 

she  said. 

25 


26  THE  MIRACLE 

She  looked  up,  turning  away  her  cheek  from  the  cow's 
flank  where  it  was  laid  and  putting  her  eyes  on  his  face  that 
was  full  of  the  simplicity  of  youth,  with  years  only  the 
weather  had  brought  to  it;  deep  lines  about  his  mouth  the 
storms  had  rutted  and  a  rough  tan  the  wind  had  seared  on 
his  cheeks.  It  was  then  he  saw — having  no  readiness  of 
words  for  it  in  his  mind  like  the  wandering  poet  from  Con- 
nemara — it  was  then  he  saw  the  way  light  had  with  her 
eyes  that  looked  through  and  beyond  his  own  so  that  it 
seemed  to  him  there  was  never  a  man  with  just  a  boat  and 
a  few  nets  to  his  name  could  ever  call  her  his  own. 

"Isn't  it  Joe  Fennel  ye  are  ?"  she  asked.  "Have  a  boat  in 
Ardnashiela  and  would  be  fishin'  across  the  bay?" 

"I  am,"  said  he,  and  knew  it  was  a  pleasure  he  felt 
because  she  had  recognised  him. 

She  returned  to  her  milking,  leaning  her  face  against  the 
side  of  the  beast  so  that  now  her  eyes  were  towards  him 
and  he  had  a  sense,  scarcely  related  to  any  thought,  of  how 
warm  her  cheek  must  be. 

"Mustn't  it  be  a  grand  thing,"  she  said  musingly,  as  her 
hands  played  the  streams  of  milk,  "to  be  away  out  beyond 
on  the  water  and  the  land  gone  from  ye,  the  time  there'd 
be  no  voices  talkin'  but  the  sea  only  with  the  song  it'ud  be 
havin'  in  yeer  ears." 

Had  he  wished,  he  could  not  have  appreciated  that  leaning 
out  of  her  mind  to  ways  and  visions  of  life  beyond  the 
world  she  moved  in.  All  he  heard  in  her  words  was  what  he 
wished  to  hear,  an  interest  and  a  sympathy  in  the  calling 
he  followed.  It  was  not  so  much  as  of  one  who  would  be 
quick  and  clever  at  the  mending  of  his  nets  or  having  the 
kettle  ready  boiling  for  him  on  the  hearth,  as  of  that  same 
kindness,  more  shielding  than  the  words  of  any  priest  against 
the  knowledge  of  loneliness  that  had  come  to  him. 

"Have  ye  never  been  out  in  a  boat?"  he  asked  with  some 


THE  MIRACLE  27 

astonishment,  "and  ye  livin'  little  more'n  a  mile  from  Ardna- 
shiela." 

'  'Tis  no  more  strange  than  yeerself  would  never  have 
seen  a  girrl  at  the  milking." 

"Shure  I've  no  call  to  be  comin'  to  the  house  of  those 
would  be  farmin'  on  the  land." 

She  smiled,  without  giving  him  her  eyes  to  see  the  distance 
and  the  look  of  vision  her  smiling  had. 

"  Tis  meself  has  no  call  either,"  said  she,  "but  to  be 
feedin'  the  beasts  in  this  place  and  boilin'  the  food  for  the 
pigs  and  churning  the  cream  maybe,  or  scatterin*  the  corn 
for  the  chickens  we'd  have  in  the  yard." 

He  bent  over  the  stall  where  he  was  leaning,  and  in  a 
voice  that  pleaded  rather  than  took  for  granted  the  virtue 
of  his  offer,  he  promised  to  take  her  out  in  his  boat  as  far 
from  the  land  as  she  could  wish  in  her  heart  to  be  going. 
To  an  amazement,  confused  in  him  with  joy  that  beat  up  in 
him  like  the  wind  of  the  storm  outside,  she  said  she  would 
come. 

It  was  not  so  eagerly  she  said  it.  Nevertheless  there  was 
gratitude,  as  though,  coming  there  that  time  of  evening,  he 
had  found  her  imprisoned  and  with  his  promise  had  opened 
a  window  for  her  to  look  through,  having  no  power  in  him- 
self to  set  her  free. 

"When  will  we  go?"  she  asked.  He  named  the  first  day 
it  was  fine  when  the  storm  had  cleared  to  a  still  sea,  the  way 
it  would  not  be  tossing  in  the  boat  she  was,  but  drifting 
sweetly  in  the  hot  time  of  the  sun. 

"Isn't  it  night  and  the  moon  shining  ye'd  be  goin'  some- 
times with  yeer  nets?"  she  enquired  then. 

He  made  way  for  her  as  she  rose  to  empty  her  bucket 
into  a  big  pail  that  stood  by  the  wall  of  the  shed,  and  was 
silent  to  her  question.  He  waited  till  she  was  seated  again 
at  the  flanks  of  the  last  beast.  When  her  hands  were  working 


28  THE  MIRACLE 

rhythmically  once  more  and  the  milk  spurting  loudly  as  when 
first  he  heard  it  into  the  empty  bucket  between  her  knees,  he 
spoke. 

"Strange  things  would  happen  on  the  sea  at  night,"  he 
said  slowly,  and  watched  her  face,  as  he  had  watched  the 
face  of  the  Parish  Priest  for  laughter.  In  her  there  was 
neither  trace  nor  thought  of  it.  A  wonder  was  in  her  eyes 
as  she  turned  her  face  at  an  angle  to  look  at  him. 

"What  things  ?"  she  asked. 

He  told  her  of  the  black  birds  and  the  taking  of  his  lobster 
pots,  having  sworn  an  oath  within  himself  as  he  walked 
along  the  shore  from  Killanardrish  he  would  never  give 
word  or  sign  of  it  again  to  a  living  being  in  that  place. 

"Is  it  a  spell  they  have  put  on  ye  so  ?"  she  said. 

He  nodded  his  head,  and  she  went  on  with  her  milking. 
She  had  nothing  but  silence  to  offer  him,  yet  that,  far 
sweeter  in  his  hearing  than  any  words  of  Father  Roche. 

"I've  no  great  heart  for  me  fishin'  now,"  he  said  at  last, 
hoping  as  much  to  make  her  speak  again  as  needing  to  say 
out  the  trouble  in  his  mind. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  softer  eyes  than  he  thought 
a  woman  could  have  and  smiled  at  him  for  courage. 

"  'Tis  not  a  strong  man  is  the  like  of  yeerself  should  be 
talkin'  that  way  at  all,"  she  said.  "Shure  won't  They  have 
Their  ways  with  all  of  us  and  isn't  the  world  a  great  place 
for  a  man  to  be  settin'  his  power  against  Them?  Didn't 
Mrs.  Flynn  is  in  Curragh  beyond  over  have  her  man  taken 
from  her  in  a  dark  night,  they  never  findin'  sight  or  trace 
of  him  again  and  she  holdin'  up  her  head  while  she'd  bide 
the  time  till  he'd  be  comin'  back  to  her."  She  smiled  at 
him  again.  "Men  are  quare  things,"  she  added,  "and  isn't 
there  great  fear  of  life  is  in  them." 

He  knew  then  in  some  understanding  it  was  fear  of  life 
that  had  taken  him  out  to  Killanardrish,  fear  of  life  and 


THE  MIRACLE  29 

the  lonesomeness  there  was  for  him  in  the  world.  But  it 
was  more  than  this  he  had  gained  in  his  understanding.  He 
knew  now,  even  in  that  short  time — as  knowledge  of  the 
kind  does  come  suddenly  to  a  man  who  has  shut  his  eyes 
to  it  for  long — that  it  was  a  woman  such  as  this  he  needed. 
If  she  were  by  the  side  of  him  where  he  could  touch  her 
and  by  the  side  of  his  thoughts  when  she  was  no  way  near 
and  he  was  fighting  with  the  storm  maybe,  or  straining  his 
strength  of  haul  the  nets  in  time,  she  would  drive  the  sadness 
out  of  the  world  with  the  kind  looks  she  could  be  giving 
him  and  the  soft  touch  of  her  hand. 

He  looked  at  her  hands  as  she  worked  and,  timid  man 
though  he  was,  he  would  have  spoken  then  and  there  with 
the  quick  fire  of  the  vision  that  was  moving  to  flame  in  his 
mind.  Suddenly  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  shed  was  pushed 
open  and  the  words  fell  away  from  off  his  tongue. 

Father  Costello,  the  curate  in  Ardnashiela,  helping  Father 
Roche  in  his  scattered  parish,  stood  in  the  doorway  saying 
the  storm  had  passed  and  he  had  come  to  tell  her  they  were 
waiting  about  the  fire  in  the  kitchen  for  their  tea. 

Fennel  touched  his  hat  and  said  good-evening.  All  the 
shyness  of  his  nature  was  come  back  to  him  then.  He  was 
amazed  at  the  boldness  her  talk  and  the  way  of  her  looking 
had  given  him.  Having  no  desire  to  stay  longer,  he  began 
moving  to  the  door  at  the  top  of  the  shed  by  which  he  had 
entered  from  the  yard.  She  had  said  she  would  come  out 
with  him  in  his  boat.  A  moment  before,  could  he  have  hoped 
for  so  much  as  that?  If  the  appearance  of  the  priest  had 
robbed  him  of  the  first  sight  of  this  new  wonder  to  his  mind, 
at  least  he  carried  her  promise  with  him  when  he  went  away. 

"Won't  ye  stay,"  she  said  when  she  saw  his  movement. 
"Won't  ye  be  stoppin'  and  havin'  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  house?" 

He  would  not,  he  answered  her.  The  storm  was  over  and 
he  would  stay  no  longer.  Though  he  thought  he  even  heard 


30  THE  MIRACLE 

an  eagerness  in  her  voice  to  be  keeping  him  there,  it  was 
not  in  the  company  of  others  he  felt  he  could  be  talking  to 
her  with  the  shyness  he  had  and  his  strangeness  with  people. 

"Let  ye  come  down  to  the  boat  cove,"  he  said  as  he  lifted 
the  latch — "the  first  mornin'  is  fine,  and  I'll  take  ye  out 
beyond  the  bay." 

He  opened  the  door  quickly  as  though,  even  with  that, 
he  had  said  more  than  he  dared  and,  stepping  down  into  the 
mire  of  the  yard,  he  went  away.  They  heard  the  gate  cry 
out  on  its  hinges.  Then  the  last  roll  of  thunder  murmured 
like  a  parting  message  called  back  to  their  ears  as  the  storm 
turned  away  from  the  sea  and  hid  itself  in  the  hills  of 
Doon  above  Doonvarna. 


MARY  continued  silently  with  her  milking  and,  in 
the  same  contemplative  manner  as  Fennel  had  done, 
the  priest  leant  against  the  stall  watching  her. 
With  all  the  difference  there  can  be  between  one  man's  regard 
of  a  woman  and  another's,  it  was  her  hands  too  he  looked  at, 
the  brown  of  her  hair,  blackened  against  the  beast's  red 
flank,  and  her  pale  cheek  resting  upon  it  like  ivory  laid  in  rust. 
It  was  just  a  simple  kindness  the  fisherman  had  seen, 
radiating  from  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  soft  look  there 
was  in  her  eyes,  her  quiet  way  of  moving  and  a  tenderness 
of  understanding  he  seemed  to  feel  in  her  words  when  she 
spoke  to  him.  But  what  was  a  kindness  ?  It  was  all  a  vague 
and  nebulous  sensation  he  had  had.  Something  he  knew 
it  was  his  life  had  needed  without  realisation  for  many  years 
of  his  loneliness.  His  mind  had  just  leaned  out  to  the  spirit 
there  was  about  her.  Now  he  was  waiting,  like  a  blind 
man  at  the  curb,  sensing  the  propitious  moment  in  the 
traffic.  Like  a  blind  man  he  was  crossing  to  a  new  thorough- 
fare in  his  life — the  side  of  the  street  where  the  sun  was 
shining.  It  was  a  warmth  he  had  felt  coming  from  her  as 
he  watched  her.  His  impulse  to  reach  it  had  become  an 
intention  already.  He  had  asked  her  to  come  out  with  him 
in  his  boat. 

Closely  and  more  clearly  than  this,  Father  Costello  was 
seeing  as  he  stood  there  watching  her.  But  it  was  by  no 
means  their  first  meeting,  as  it  had  been  with  Fennel,  nor 

was  his  mind  that  uncouth,  unfashioned  device  registering 

31 


32  THE  MIRACLE 

upon  the  fisherman's  perceptions  the  thoughts  almost  of  a 
child. 

With  his  training  and  the  high  measure  of  his  intelligence, 
unusual  amongst  his  class  who  are  drawn  so  often  from  the 
land  itself,  he  looked  deeply  into  life  and  at  times  had  clear 
visions  of  it.  And  it  was  the  throb  of  life  itself  he  saw — 
and  had  seen  always  from  the  first — in  Mary  Kirwan.  Her 
hands  he  watched,  playing  with  those  streams  of  milk,  seemed 
fitly  occupied  to  him.  Her  cheek,  leaning  against  the  cow's 
flank,  lay,  as  he  could  imagine  it  should  lie,  close  to  the 
warmth  of  life. 

It  was  as  though  he  felt  he  were  watching  a  process  of 
life,  the  participation  of  which  in  himself  he  had  renounced, 
yet  still  was  eager  to  see  at  work.  More  than  any  woman 
whose  shadow  had  just  fallen  across  the  solitary  path  he 
walked  on,  he  discerned  the  presence  of  it  in  her.  At  all 
times  he  had  felt  her  to  be  instinct  with  it.  There  were 
moments  too,  when  mere  instinct  seemed  an  empty  word  to 
apply  to  her.  She  demanded  life.  Sometimes  he  felt  that 
whether  she  demanded  it  or  not,  the  full  stream  of  it  must 
come  to  her ;  that  its  direction  and  intensity  lay  in  no  measure 
of  her  will. 

He  had  often  wondered  who  in  that  village,  cast  away 
upon  a  wild  and  almost  uninhabited  coast,  could  bring  it  her. 
And  now  he  had  just  been  witness  of  the  first  inception  of 
one  of  those  matches  that  are  made  with  little  joy  or  beauty 
in  them  in  the  remote  country  places  of  that  land  of  Ireland. 

He  stood  there,  emotionally  observant,  wondering,  was 
that  the  best  that  could  come  to  her.  Drawn  sometimes  to 
the  fateful  look  in  her  eyes  and  that  transparent  pallor  of 
her  cheeks,  he  had  often  designed  in  his  imagination  a  deeper 
joy  for  her  than  this.  A  farmer's  daughter  and  uneducated 
though  she  was,  he  had  found  the  faculty  of  sensitive  appre- 


THE  MIRACLE  33 

ciation  in  her.  She  had  a  way  of  listening  to  him  when  he 
talked  that  brought  him  these  impressions.  Sometimes  he 
had  put  them  away,  had  told  himself  with  conviction  that 
like  a  stream  in  the  earth,  life  found  its  own  channels  and 
only  in  such  manner  did  it  flow  with  any  beauty  at  all. 
Besides,  what  was  it  really  to  him?  If  she  married  one  of 
those  men  in  Ardnashiela  whose  coarseness  and  crudeness 
of  mind  sometimes  amazed  him,  what  else  was  to  be  expected 
for  her?  There  was  no  high  opinion  he  had  of  James  Kir- 
wan,  the  farmer.  She  was  his  daughter.  What  better  life 
could  be  expected  for  her  than  that  with  which  she  was 
surrounded  ? 

But  now  there  was  one  who,  in  the  usual  way  these  wooings 
were  begun,  had  come  for  her.  For  honesty,  clean  living 
and  a  Spartan  thriftiness,  there  was  not  a  man  in  the  village 
to  equal  Fennel,  the  fisherman. 

The  first  thought  in  Father  Costello  was  a  prosaic  satis- 
faction when  he  heard  that  invitation  to  Mary  to  come  out 
with  him  in  his  boat.  And  then  it  was,  while  he  stood  watch- 
ing her,  there  came  back  with  the  inevitable  pressure  of 
belief,  the  thought  that  it  was  little  the  hands  he  saw  would 
touch  the  meaning  of  life  she  needed,  or  her  cheek  be 
warmed,  or  the  spirit  he  felt  in  her  come  near  to  any  realisa- 
tion of  itself  with  Fennel. 

The  mere  insistent  recurrency  of  this  idea  gave  him  a  sense 
of  discomfort.  With  a  determined  purpose  he  went  out  of 
his  way  to  thrust  it  aside. 

"Was  it  Fennel  was  sheltering  from  the  storm?"  he  asked. 

"He  was,  Father." 

"There's  the  best  man  in  Ardnashiela." 

Without  lifting  her  head  from  the  cow's  flank,  she  turned 
to  look  at  him. 

"  'Twould  not  be  hard,"  said  she,  without  pause  in  her 


34  THE  MIRACLE 

milking,  "  'twould  not  be  hard  with  all  the  drink  they'd 
have  taken  one  time  and  another.  'Tis  an  idle  life  for  those 
would  be  fishin'  in  the  sea." 

He  agreed  it  seemed  idle  enough  at  times,  but  it  was  not 
Fennel  was  idle,  he  told  her,  for  there  was  a  man  was  always 
mending  his  nets  or  making  new  pots  to  be  putting  out  for 
the  lobsters. 

"And  hasn't  he  good  money  laid  away  there  in  his  cottage 
on  the  cliff  road,"  said  he,  "with  many  a  woman  glancing  at 
him  in  Ardnashiela  would  be  glad  of  the  gift  of  a  look  out  of 
his  eyes." 

For  a  moment  she  stopped  milking  altogether  to  look 
steadily  at  him.  If  it  was  reproach  she  felt,  she  did  not 
speak  it.  Her  head  bent  again  as  she  turned  to  the  finishing 
of  her  work. 

"What  way  would  ye  be  tellin'  me  that?"  she  asked 
quietly. 

"No  way  at  all,"  he  said  at  once,  but  he  knew  there  was 
reproach  and  knew  moreover  it  was  the  same  with  which  he 
had  upbraided  himself. 

This  was  a  new  thing  he  had  learnt  of  her.  In  some 
way  she  was  conscious  in  her  spirit  of  that  demand  for  life. 
He  had  not  thought  that  possible  before.  Until  that  moment 
he  had  believed  she  had  no  perception  of  herself.  Somehow 
it  seemed  he  gained  a  fresh  experience  of  her  every  time  they 
met.  For  a  moment  now  he  felt  ill-at-ease.  He  wished  he 
had  not  spoken. 

"I  wanted  to  give  you  a  good  thought  of  him,"  he  went 
on,  stumbling  to  explain.  "There's  not  a  man  in  Ardna- 
shiela I'd  think  well  for  you  to  be  going  out  with  in  his 
boat — a  young  girl  like  yourself — but  Fennel  only.  Shure, 
he's  as  true  a  man  as  ever  threw  a  net  or  took  his  haul  out 
of  the  sea." 

Apparently  she  had  no  further  wish  to  talk  of  it.     In 


THE  MIRACLE  35 

silence  she  stood  up.  Her  work  was  finished.  She  did  not 
look  at  him  again. 

When  he  offered  to  carry  the  bucket  for  her,  she  consented 
with  a  muttered  word  of  thanks.  Taking  the  pail  herself  with 
the  steam  rising  in  grey  wisps  from  the  froth  of  the  milk  in  it, 
she  followed  him  down  the  shed  with  the  little  dog  closely  at 
her  heels. 

They  had  scarcely  moved  away  before  she  called  to  him  to 
stop.  The  milk,  full  in  his  bucket,  had  caught  a  way  on  it 
from  his  walking.  It  began  swilling  over  the  edge  and  falling 
in  a  puddle  with  every  step  he  took. 

"Ye'd  better  set  that  down  on  the  ground,  Father,"  she 
said,  and  had  no  other  tone  in  her  voice  but  that  of  practical 
necessity.  Milk  spilt  in  the  shed  when  she  was  milking  the 
cows  was  a  different  matter.  It  was  always  a  custom  in  the 
farms  to  leave  that  for  the  faeries.  The  little  streams  that 
fell  to  the  floor  when  a  cow  moved  and  distracted  the  pre- 
cision of  her  aim  were  always  gone  in  the  morning,  but  here 
was  waste. 

He  put  it  down  at  once  with  unhesitating  obedience  and 
watched  her  lifting  it  easily  to  the  balance  of  the  pail  she 
carried  in  her  other  hand.  Her  body  was  swayed  over  and 
her  head  set  at  an  angle  that  played  to  the  intangible  beauty 
she  had  in  her  face. 

In  silence  he  continued  opening  the  doors  for  her  from 
shed  to  stables  and  on  as  they  went.  At  the  last,  reaching 
the  door  out  to  the  cobbled  path  before  the  house,  his  hand 
hung  in  a  pause  on  the  latch. 

"Is  it  hurt  ye  are  at  me  talking  about  the  man?"  he  said 
straightly. 

"Shure,  can't  ye  say  what  ye  like  of  anny  man,  Father? 
What  would  there  be  would  be  hurtin'  me?" 

"Ye  thought  'twas  the  way  I  was  interfering  maybe, 
meanin'  he'd  be  a  good  match  for  ye." 


36  THE  MIRACLE 

"I  didn't  think  it  at  all.     Shure,  I  knew  it  well." 

"An'  so  he  would,"  said  the  priest  firmly. 

She  had  set  down  her  buckets,  waiting  in  a  habit  of  mind 
for  him  to  open  the  door  as  he  had  the  others.  Now  she 
opened  it  herself  and  picked  up  her  buckets  again. 

"He  would  indeed,"  said  she  quietly,  as  she  passed  through 
onto  the  cobbled  pathway  and  walked  along  to  the  door  of 
the  house.  "He  would  indeed,"  she  repeated,  "if  I'd  a  mind 
in  me  itself  to  be  matchin'  with  anny  man  at  all." 


VI 

A'  the  signal  of  a  tapping  of  Mary's  foot  against 
it,  James  Kirwan  opened  the  door  of  the  house  and 
let  her  in.  With  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  clink- 
ing a  few  pieces  of  copper  money,  he  stood  on  the  threshold, 
waiting  for  Father  Costello  who  followed  in  a  muse  of 
thought  behind  her. 

It  was  early  autumn  and  they  had  been  wanting  the  rain. 
The  farmer  was  rubbing  together  the  coins  in  his  pocket 
in  a  good  humour  and  hopefulness  that  was  rare  with  him. 

"  'Twas  a  fine  shtorm,"  said  he.  "Shure,  it  might  have 
been  rainin'  silver  pieces,  the  worth  it'll  put  into  the  corn." 

He  stood  aside  to  let  the  priest  pass  into  the  kitchen. 

"I'll  just  get  me  hat,"  said  Father  Costello.  "There'll  be 
no  more  rain  and  'tis  to  Cappagh  I  must  be  goin'  for  a 
sick  call." 

"Who  is  it  is  sick?" 

"Mrs.  McSwiney." 

The  farmer  tossed  up  his  head. 

"Shure  'tis  not  sick  that  woman  is  but  old  with  sour 
years.  Let  ye  be  here  in  this  starvin'  parish  another  month 
or  two,  Father,  and  'tis  tied  bi  the  leg  she'll  have  ye  to  the 
post  of  her  bed  the  way  she'd  be  goin'  on  greatly  with  her 
pulin'  and  whinin'.  Hadn't  she  Father  O'Connor  was  curate 
here  these  last  three  years  destroyed  entirely  goin'  out  on 
the  roads  to  Cappagh,  till  he  came  to  be  knowin'  the  fidgetty 
old  woman  she  was  ?" 

If  there  was  little  charity  in  what  he  said,  Father  Costello 
knew  well  it  was  true.  Nevertheless  he  went  into  the  kitchen 

37 


38  THE  MIRACLE 

to  get  his  hat.  Coming  out  of  the  dairy  with  her  empty 
buckets,  Mary  saw  him  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  turning  to 
the  door.  Then  because  of  the  advice  he  had  given  her  and 
the  retort  she  had  made  and  now  his  going  in  a  haste  to 
get  away,  their  eyes  met  in  a  challenge. 

"Is  it  goin'  without  yeer  cup  of  tea,  Father,"  she  said 
quietly,  "and  I  gettin'  the  milk,  and  all  ready  for  ye  to  be 
drinkin'  it  while  it  'ud  be  fresh?" 

A  longer  challenge  from  her  eyes  and  he  might  have  been 
the  more  set  upon  his  going,  but  she  looked  at  him  no 
further.  In  silence  she  went  on  with  what  she  was  doing, 
standing  her  buckets  down  by  the  side  of  the  red,  painted 
dresser,  the  lower  portion  of  which  was  a  coop  where  they 
kept  hens  that  were  broody  or  in  the  spring  such  as  were 
hatching  out  their  eggs. 

He  stood  in  a  pause  at  the  door.  The  farmer  engaged 
him  in  wordy  talk  about  the  crops,  mingling  superstition 
with  a  rough  knowledge  of  experience  amongst  his  opinions 
and  predictions  and  coming,  as  was  in  the  nature  of  him,  to 
a  moody  plaint  about  the  badness  of  the  land  and  the  better 
times  that  would  never  return  to  the  farming  again  whilst 
he  was  in  that  place. 

James  Kirwan  was  a  thickly  made  man,  with  rounded 
head  and  sharp  and  close-set  eyes.  Cunning  there  was  in 
them,  craft  and  no  little  cruelty  too,  but  it  was  the  cruelty 
of  one  governed  by  his  fears,  rather  than  the  determination 
of  his  nature.  Coarse  and  inconsistent  fibre  he  was  to  be 
the  stock  of  so  finely  elusive  a  creature  as  Mary. 

It  had  not  been  long  before  Father  Costello  was  made 
aware  of  this.  When  first  he  came  to  Ardnashiela  three 
months  before,  Mrs.  Troy,  in  whose  cottage  he  lived  in  the 
Main  Street,  had  sent  him  out  to  Kirwan's. 

"  'Tis  mostly  all  would  be  gettin'  their  milk  and  eggs 


THE  MIRACLE  39 

and  butter  at  the  farm,"  she  said.  "Let  ye  go  and  be 
speakin'  them  yeerself  and  'tis  the  best  ye'll  be  gettin'." 

Partly  in  obedience  to  that  advice  and  partly  in  his  desire 
to  come  to  a  close  knowledge  of  his  people,  he  had  gone. 
It  was  this  arresting  inconsistency  between  father  and  daugh- 
ter that  had  first  sharpened  his  interest  upon  them  all. 

Cut  off  by  a  mile  and  more  of  ragged  beach  and  rutted 
road  from  such  human  contact  as  there  was  in  the  cluster  of 
houses  in  Ardnashiela,  it  stood  out  above  the  shore  to  meet 
the  prevailing  storms.  They  were  glad  enough  of  any  com- 
pany in  that  isolated  farm.  Once  having  made  their 
acquaintance  in  their  own  kitchen — a  comfortable  and  spa- 
cious room  to  be  sitting  in,  with  the  cheer  of  an  open  hearth 
and  a  peat  fire  the  bellows  wheel  kept  glowing  on  the  windy 
days — it  was  not  an  easy  matter  for  the  young  priest  to 
refuse  the  eager  invitations  of  the  farmer.  It  was  great 
honour,  he  was  told,  he  would  be  giving  them  to  take  a  meal 
of  tea.  As  well  as  this,  he  liked  to  sit  there  talking  in  the 
soft  scent  of  the  peat  or  listening  to  the  blind  man  by  the 
fireside,  turning  the  wheel  and  telling  his  tales. 

Father  Costello  had  come  out  there  many  times  since, 
as  new  curate  to  Father  Roche,  he  had  arrived  in  the  parish  of 
Ardnashiela,  and  it  had  not  taken  him  long  to  appreciate 
there  was  little  of  the  blood  of  the  father  running  in  the  veins 
of  the  daughter  of  the  house.  From  her  mother's  stock  rather 
she  came,  but  there  were  few  if  any  in  those  parts — and  they 
had  gossip  and  curiosity  enough — to  say  in  what  part  of  the 
country  Kirwan  had  first  set  a  wishful  eye  upon  his  wife. 

A  dark,  silent,  remote  and  impenetrable  woman  she  was, 
who  sat  most  times  in  the  recess  of  the  open  hearth  opposite 
that  allotted  to  the  blind  man  with  his  labour  at  the  bellows 
wheel.  There  it  was  she  occupied  a  great  measure  of  her 
time  with  the  plaiting  of  rush  baskets  and  bags  which,  as  far 


40  THE  MIRACLE 

as  the  priest  could  see,  served  no  purpose  in  the  house  or 
out  of  it. 

To  the  mystery  of  that  personality,  Mary  Kirwan  owed 
no  doubt  much  of  the  distant  beauty  and  elusiveness  she 
had.  Even  in  the  looks  of  them  there  was  a  resemblance. 
Both  were  dark  of  eye  and  the  loamy  brown  of  Mary's 
hair  was  nearer  that  of  her  mother's  black  than  the  farmer's 
sandy  grey  the  years  had  bleached  to  a  nondescript  shade 
of  straw  which  on  a  low  forehead  hung  in  a  matted  fringe 
over  his  pale,  grey  eyes. 

To  a  young  man,  coming  from  wide  travels  and  a  broad 
sight  of  the  world  to  this  desolate  parish — his  first  appoint- 
ment— it  was  with  a  ready  eagerness  he  sought  the  compan- 
ionship and  interest  to  be  found  in  Kirwan's  kitchen.  Most 
Sundays  he  came  there  after  Benediction.  There  was  a 
readiness  for  life  in  him  as  well  as  for  his  work.  The  fire 
of  asceticism  that  had  flamed  to  a  desire  for  Holy  Orders 
when  he  was  a  young  man  in  Dublin  had  not  been  monastic, 
with  a  pale  and  sacred  light,  but  fierce,  welding  and  human 
in  its  glow.  With  all  the  flushing  confidence  of  youth,  he 
had  told  himself  he  had  no  fear  of  the  world.  Life,  he  had 
said,  was  for  living  by  priests  and  men  alike,  and  it  was  into 
the  world  he  would  go  amongst  the  lives  of  men  and  women 
to  help  them  with  the  power  of  courage  and  the  virtue  of 
faith. 

The  flint  of  his  purpose  gave  out  its  sparks,  sharp  and 
penetrating,  in  his  eyes.  They  were  kind.  They  had  laugh- 
ter in  them.  As  he  talked,  they  shone.  And  if  his  face 
was  pale  and  there  were  deep  lines  too  readily  drawn  about 
his  mouth  for  so  young  a  man,  it  was  because  he  had  found 
life  not  quite  so  easy  as  he  had  thought,  his  purpose  not  so 
securely  simple,  his  courage  not  always  so  high.  But  faith, 
in  its  fervour,  had  been  always  with  him,  and  that  faith  it 
was  which  gave  a  character  to  his  face  that  many  a  woman 


THE  MIRACLE  41 

had  gazed  at  in  some  sense  of  awe  and  many  a  man  had 
wished  was  his  own. 

'  Tis  a  good  thing,"  he  had  said  to  Father  Roche,  "for 
a  young  priest  to  be  amongst  the  people.  There's  not  the 
feeling  of  awe  in  them  there  was  at  one  time  when  a  man 
would  be  holding  his  breath  talking  to  a  priest  in  the  street." 

The  pale  eyes  of  Father  Roche  had  searched  his  for  a 
moment  as  though  here  he  had  found  a  young  man  setting 
out  from  the  very  beginning  to  interfere  with  the  habit  of 
his  life. 

"They'll  hold  their  breath,"  said  he  briefly — "the  same  as 
they  always  did,  if  there's  a  man  as  well  as  a  priest  inside  the 
collar  he'd  be  wearin'." 

The  younger  man's  observation  was  nearer  to  the  truth.  If 
they  held  their  breath  for  Father  Roche,  it  was  more  in  fear 
than  in  respect  of  him.  Having  no  fear  of  Father  Costello  in 
his  wish  to  be  one  with  them,  James  Kirwan  threw  open  his 
door  and  more  than  once  declared  after  his  departure,  it 
might  not  have  been  with  a  priest  of  the  Church  at  all  they 
were  sharing  their  meal,  but  a  man  only  like  any  would 
be  coming  in  off  the  road. 

So  had  grown  an  interest,  passing  mere  acquaintance,  that 
centered  in  Father  Costello's  mind  about  the  character  and 
distant,  evasive  fatality  of  Mary  Kirwan. 

With  no  motive  of  petty  inquisitiveness,  but  rather  with 
the  interest  that  accumulated  in  his  visits  to  the  farm,  he 
had  made  enquiries  about  Mrs.  Kirwan,  her  origin,  her 
place  of  birth,  the  little  if  anything  that  was  known  about 
her.  There  were  plenty  to  talk,  but  few  with  knowledge  in 
their  talking.  When  he  found  it  was  mere  gossip  he  was 
hearing,  he  asked  no  more. 

Idle  stories  they  had  told  him.  But  if  they  were  idle,  they 
nevertheless  revealed  to  him  the  subtle  infectiousness  of  an 
idea  that  spreads  in  the  minds  of  those  living  in  lonely  places. 


42  THE  MIRACLE 

Some  said  it  was  the  evil  eye  she  had.  He  laughed  at  that. 
Others,  that  she  knew  more  of  the  faeries  than  was  good 
for  a  human  woman  to  be  knowing.  He  shook  his  head, 
smiling,  as  though  they  were  children  talking  to  him  and  he 
would  not  wilfully  hurt  their  beliefs.  It  was  told  she  had 
given  a  herb  to  a  tinker  with  a  running  sore  on  his  foot, 
had  come  begging  to  the  door  of  the  house.  He  had  bound 
it  to  the  open  wound  and  in  three  days  it  was  healed  and 
gone  from  him.  The  man  had  told  them  himself  when 
they  were  drinking,  all  of  them  together,  in  Foley's  public 
house.  He  showed  them  his  foot  that  was  healed  and  there 
was  no  scar  or  twisted  skin  on  the  place  at  all. 

"For  what  would  she  be  makin'  those  baskets  and  bags 
with  the  rushes  she'd  have  in  a  green  heap  in  her  lap?" 

Mrs.  Cotter  on  the  cliff  road,  who  had  never  been  further 
than  the  door  of  her  cottage  for  a  matter  of  ten  years,  shot 
that  question  at  him  out  of  the  twist  that  came  to  her  mouth 
when  she  had  things  to  be  telling  about  her  neighbours. 

In  all  innocence,  thinking  he  was  to  hear  a  true  statement 
— it  was  scarcely  a  month  after  his  arrival  in  Ardnashiela — 
Father  Costello  enquired  the  reason  it  might  be.  Mrs. 
Cotter  lowered  her  voice  and  spoke  on  the  wheeze  of  her 
breath. 

"Doesn't  the  world  know,"  said  she,  "  'tis  in  little  rush 
bags  Themselves  would  be  carryin'  the  food  They'd  steal 
from  the  house  of  anny  place  where  They'd  be  goin'." 

He  asked  no  more  questions  then,  feeling  it  was  a  folly 
in  him  and  a  shame  as  well  to  the  hospitality  they  were  giving 
him  where  he  was  a  stranger  amongst  them  all.  Yet  with 
no  wish  on  his  part,  insensibly  it  increased  his  interest  in 
that  strange,  silent  woman.  Often  he  watched  her  sitting 
by  the  peat  fire,  her  thin  fingers  slipping  in  and  out  between 
the  green  rushes  and,  without  showing  them  to  any,  laying 


THE  MIRACLE  43 

the  little  bags  she  would  be  making  down  on  the  ground 
by  her  side  in  the  open  hearth. 

It  was  by  this,  without  his  being  aware  of  it,  that  his 
interest  had  gathered  about  Mary  Kirwan.  In  her  he  saw 
the  mother  remoulded,  fused  with  a  different  blood,  and  made 
human  with  a  wistfulness  of  understanding  that  even  Fennel, 
the  fisherman,  heavy  and  blunt  of  mind,  had  not  been  slow 
to  come  upon. 

There  had  been  times  in  those  three  months  of  summer 
when,  in  that  spacious  kitchen,  splashed  with  sun  on  the 
white-washed  walls  through  the  half -open  door,  they  had 
found  themselves  alone  with  their  talking.  Once,  when  they 
were  making  the  hay  in  the  meadow  by  the  stream  that 
gathers  its  way  out  of  the  hills  of  Boon,  they  were  in  an 
undisturbed  companionship  all  the  hours  from  tea  till  the 
sun  set  behind  Helvic  Head. 

Their  talk  was  of  the  simplest  nature,  conversation  led 
mostly  by  him,  telling  her  beauties  of  the  places  he  had 
travelled  in.  Deep  visions  she  had  in  her  "•eyes  when  he 
talked  of  the  snow  flushed  to  the  colour  of  a  rose  on  the 
summits  of  the  Italian  Alps  at  sunrise.  Long  breaths  she 
drew  at  the  sound  of  life  there  was  in  his  words  and  his 
voice  whilst  he  was  speaking. 

It  was,  as  the  old  travelling  man  from  Connemara  had  said, 
the  gentleness  of  her  listening  and  the  way  her  lips  had  of 
making  his  words  to  hear  again  the  sound  of  their  thought, 
that  sped  him  on  to  his  speech  with  her. 

Nights  alone  in  the  small  house  he  occupied  in  the  village 
street  of  Ardnashiela,  he  would  sit  reading  his  books  beneath 
the  light  of  an  oil  lamp  and  find  himself  wondering  what 
they  were  doing  in  the  kitchen  at  Kirwan's  farm,  what 
tale  the  old  blind  man  might  perhaps  be  telling  and  whether 
that  silent  woman  of  the  house  was  even  then  plaiting 
the  rushes  on  her  lap. 


44  THE  MIRACLE 

Sometimes  when  the  wondering  grew  on  him  till  it  became 
a  fret  in  his  mind,  he  would  get  up  and  go  out  into  the 
street,  turning  towards  the  strand  and  the  way  to  the  farm, 
and,  when  he  had  gone  no  further  than  the  sea  wall  where 
the  fishermen's  nets  hung  in  their  black  draping,  turn  back. 
It  was  too  soon  to  be  going  out  to  the  farm  again,  he  told 
himself  then.  For  what  would  they  think  of  him  in  the  small- 
ness  of  that  place,  and  was  it  not  leaving  his  books  he  was 
and  the  thoughts  that  ought  to  be  near  to  his  mind  with  them  ? 
Yet  he  knew  it  was  life  was  there  in  that  farm-house,  life 
more  vital  and  with  a  deeper  pulse  in  it  than  ever  he  could 
find  in  the  black  print  on  the  white  page.  And  it  was  life 
he  leant  to.  He  felt  always  he  could  meet  it,  face  to  face, 
lending  faith  to  it  and  spurring  it  to  courage  whenever  it 
came  his  way. 

With  Mary  no  less,  it  had  grown  to  be  a  watching  for  his 
coming,  a  swift  focussing  of  her  eyes  upon  any  black  figure 
of  a  man  she  saw  walking  on  the  strand.  With  the  new 
interest  of  his  conversation  and  the  appreciative  sense  in 
his  mind,  he  was  of  another  order  of  men  from  those  with 
whom  she  had  any  time  to  be  speaking.  Like  her  father, 
they  all  had  coarse  talk  who  came  to  the  house.  Through 
long  familiarity  it  had  no  effect  of  driving  the  blood  across 
the  paleness  of  her  cheeks,  but  it  left  her  often  sick  in  heart 
and  mind.  It  was  natural  enough  he  could  not  have  come 
there  too  often  for  her  liking. 

On  those  Sundays  when  he  preached  at  mid-day  Mass  in 
Ardnashiela,  she  sat  on  the  uncushioned  bench,  forgetting 
the  best  clothes  she  was  wearing  and  listened  in  an  attitude 
of  mind  which  deluded  her  into  the  sensation  that  he  was 
speaking  to  her  alone.  It  seemed  he  was  speaking  just  as 
he  had  spoken  in  the  hay-field  or  as  he  talked  often  by  the 
peat  fire  in  the  kitchen  at  home. 

This  was  a  ready  illusion  she  had,  for  he  spoke  his  sermons 


THE  MIRACLE  45 

with  no  form  of  intoning.  There  were  others  who  felt  the 
same  as  she. 

Coming  out  of  church  one  morning,  Julia  Mahon,  with 
surprise  at  her  own  daring,  had  whispered  it  in  Mary's  ear. 

"I'd  feel  'twas  the  way  he'd  taken  me  himself  for  a  piece," 
she  said,  "and  he  talkin'  to  meself  as  it  might  be  in  a 
quiet  place." 

The  full  justification  of  Mary's  rebuke  to  her  was  unques- 
tionable. What  should  a  priest  with  his  learning  and  the 
powers  of  speech  he  had,  want  talking  to  a  village  girl! 
And  it  was  in  a  complete  unconsciousness  of  the  right  of 
any  charge  to  be  laid  against  herself,  that  she  had  made 
her  censure.  In  a  simple  eagerness  for  life,  she  dissected 
none  of  her  sensations.  They  came  to  her  as  the  waves 
came  with  the  inevitable  tides,  leaping  up  the  strand  in  the 
rush  of  the  storm,  or  lapping  idly  like  a  pulse  on  the  still, 
warm  days,  when  it  seemed  to  her  it  was  no  more  than 
mere  breathing  to  be  alive. 

With  this  last  state  of  mind  she  had  been  most  familiar 
of  all.  Sensations  had  come  leaping — sensations  of  anger  and 
resentment — only  when  the  craft  of  her  father,  his  cunning 
and  sometimes  his  cruelty  had  pricked  her  to  revolt.  With 
her  mother  she  had  little  antagonism,  unless  it  were  at 
moments  when  her  heart  quested  for  sympathy  and  found 
none.  That  silent  unapproachable  woman  with  her  infre- 
quent speech  that  only  served  to  hide  the  more  her  hidden 
thoughts,  was  as  unapproachable  to  Mary  as  to  any.  A  few 
times  through  her  childhood,  she  had  turned  her  eyes  with 
all  their  intensity  towards  her  mother,  only  to  find  that  still 
face,  paled  by  the  black  hair,  and  dark  eyes  that  looked  at 
her  with  some  sense  of  pity  too  remote  to  speak  itself  in 
words. 

In  this  way  she  had  come  to  seek  in  herself  for  the  little 
satisfactions  life  offers  sparingly  to  any  girl  of  her  age. 


46  THE  MIRACLE 

A  new  frock,  a  new  beast  on  the  farm  for  her  caring,  the 
stray  dog  that  had  come  to  the  house,  a  dance  on  the  kitchen 
floor  after  the  threshing  with  the  sharp  sounds  of  the  fiddle, 
stinging,  but  pleasantly,  in  her  ears  and  running  in  quick 
fires  through  her  blood,  these  were  the  little  events  and  hap- 
penings th?t  marked  the  days  for  her. 

But  most  of  all  the  little  satisfactions,  deep  enough  some- 
times to  stir  the  sensations  in  her  to  a  hidden  storm,  were 
the  tales  she  heard  at  the  peat  fire  from  those  wandering 
men  who  travel  the  roads  through  the  length  and  breadth  of 
Ireland. 

Always  they  came  to  the  farm  looking  for  work  they  could 
never  lay  their  hands  to  for  long.  When  their  stories  were 
spent  and  the  men  of  the  house  had  grown  weary  of  them, 
they  departed.  Like  the  tinkers  on  the  road,  they  came  to 
Kirwan's  as  though  it  were  a  workhouse;  shelter  and  food 
for  them  till  they  were  ready  to  set  out  again.  So  sure  as 
one  was  gone,  in  a  week  or  two  another  would  be  knocking 
at  the  door.  James  Kirwan  took  them  in,  working  them 
for  the  best  they  would  give  him.  For  the  class  they  were 
— in  his  computation  less  than  the  beasts  he  had  in  his 
shed — he  treated  them  well  enough,  with  food  in  the  house 
sometimes  and  a  straw  bed  in  an  empty  cow-stall.  Some 
were  blind  even,  and  these  stayed  only  for  the  love  of  God 
till  they  were  rested  from  their  walking  on  the  hard  roads. 

But  each  and  all  had  their  stories,  and  to  these  she 
had  listened  with  a  tireless  eagerness  since  she  was  a  little 
girl  with  bare  feet  and  hair  dropping  about  her  shoulders. 

Sitting  there  in  the  kitchen,  smoking  his  pipe,  his  short 
upper  lip  protruding  with  an  unpleasing  expression  as  he 
held  it  between  his  teeth,  James  Kirwan  would  sometimes 
pull  them  up  short,  spitting  with  impatience  on  the  floor. 

"There's  enough  of  that  now!"  he  would  exclaim. 
"Haven't  we  heard  that  wan  before.  Shure  the  man  was 


THE  MIRACLE  47 

only  pretendin'  to  be  dead,  the  time  his  wife'd  be  goin'  her 
nasty  ways  with  the  other  fella.  Begor,  I'm  tired  of  that 
tale.  Haven't  all  the  travellin'  men  got  it  would  be  comin' 
to  these  parts?" 

If  it  drove  the  story-maker  into  a  long  silence,  it  was 
Mary,  when  they  were  sitting  together,  who  coaxed  him 
to  be  telling  it  for  her  ears  alone.  For  there  was  a  way 
each  one  of  them  had  in  telling  his  tales  that  was  always 
different  from  another.  The  place  would  not  be  the  same, 
or  the  names  varied,  which  made  a  freshness  to  her  she 
refused  to  be  denied. 

And  then,  after  Father  O'Connor's  departure,  came  Father 
Costello,  the  new  curate,  to  Ardnashiela.  The  very  first 
Sunday  he  had  come  out  to  the  farm,  it  was  she  who  had 
weighed  out  the  butter  he  took  back  and  gave  him  the 
eggs  he  put  loose  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat. 

"What'll  ye  be  doin'  if  they  break  on  ye?"  she  had  asked 
him. 

"I'll  walk,"  said  he,  "the  way  I'd  be  going  to  a 
funeral — "  And  they  laughed,  and  it  was  a  new  sound 
to  her  in  the  house.  And  all  the  way  back  to  Ardnashiela, 
he  had  heard  it,  a  sound  of  life,  in  and  out  of  the  splashing 
of  the  sea. 


VII 

WHEN  tea  was  laid  ready  on  the  deal  table  and  the 
willow  plates  from  the  dresser  set  out,  as  Mary 
always  set  them  on  these  occasions,  James  Kirwan 
closed  the  lower  half  of  the  door  and  busied  himself  bring- 
ing a  chair  for  the  priest. 

The  sun  was  shining  then  through  the  upper  part  of  the 
door.  A  liquid  blue  the  sky  was,  clean  and  wet,  as  though 
the  storm  with  its  floods  of  rain  had  scoured  it.  Beyond 
the  fields,  still  in  the  fume  of  the  wind,  the  sea  clamoured 
with  an  unbroken  voice  on  all  their  talking. 

Griddle  cakes,  baked  in  the  ashes,  no  hand  could  make 
better  than  Mrs.  Kirwan's,  fresh  tea  with  the  new  milk  still 
afroth  on  the  top  of  the  jug  and  a  heavy-looking  cake  made 
in  the  house,  this  was  the  fare  they  had.  Except  for  a  few 
abrupt  remarks,  it  was  in  silence  they  partook  of  it,  a  meal 
well  needed  after  the  work  of  the  day. 

The  farmer  ate  with  the  evident  relish  of  a  hungry  man 
but  not  so  noisily  in  his  own  hearing  as  to  prevent  him  from 
making  a  critical  comment  upon  the  blind  man's  mastication 
of  his  food. 

"Blind  man,"  said  he  sharply. 

The  sightless  eyes  turned  from  the  chimney  corner  in  the 
direction  of  the  voice. 

"If  the  Lord  Archbishop  of  Dublin  was  in  this  room  and 
he  with  the  blessing  of  the  Almighty  God  on  the  wet  of  his 
lips,  I'm  thinkin'  'tis  not  hearin'  himself  speak  we'd  be  at  all 
with  the  sound  of  ye  bitin'  at  yeer  food." 

He  looked  round  for  the  appreciation  of  laughter  and 

48 


THE  MIRACLE  49 

finding  none,  he  went  on  with  his  own  munching.  The  only 
sound  of  laughter  was  his  own,  a  thin,  uncertain  note,  which 
he  swallowed  with  a  draught  from  his  cup  of  tea. 

The  next  to  break  the  silence  was  the  blind  man  himself. 

"I'm  done !"  said  he,  and  laid  his  cup  down  with  a  clatter 
upon  the  hearth  at  his  side. 

Across  the  bare  deal  table,  Mary  looked  for  the  first  time 
since  their  challenge  at  Father  Costello.  A  sensitive  thought 
had  come  to  her  that  with  all  his  learning  and  the  ideas  he 
had  in  his  mind,  he  must  realise  in  the  long  silence  that  fell 
upon  them  how  ignorant  they  were.  She  wanted  to  speak, 
but  had  nothing  to  say.  And  then  the  voice  of  the  blind  man, 
without  warning  or  preliminary,  set  up  above  the  long  wash 
of  the  sea. 

"There  was  a  man  at  one  time  in  Cloongarish,"  he  began, 
and  his  voice  was  drawn  out  in  the  long  singing  note  of 
narrative  such  as  they  have  who  speak  the  lift  and  fall  of 
the  songs  of  Ireland. 

"Let  ye  be  mindin'  the  wheel,  blind  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Kirwan  imperturbably,  "let  ye  be  mindin'  the  wheel, 
there's  a  red  spark  only  is  in  the  peat." 

He  leant  down  his  hand  in  his  darkness  and  found  it.  With 
body  rising  and  falling  then  to  the  revolutions  he  made,  he 
began  again  as  though  it  were  the  first  time  of  his  speaking. 

"There  was  a  man  one  time  in  Cloongarish  and  his  wife 
was  long  ailin'  in  her  bed  with  a  sickness  she  had  was  beatin' 
the  minds  of  all  the  doctors  would  be  comin'  to  have  a  look 
at  her." 

Mary  put  her  cup  aside  on  the  table  and  came  to  the  stool 
which  was  always  near  at  hand  to  the  bellows  wheel.  Seat- 
ing herself  there,  she  slipped  her  hand  in  silence  over  the 
handle  and  took  it  from  the  hooks  of  his  fingers  so  that  he 
could  be  going  on  with  his  tale  without  stay  or  hindrance. 
A  turn  of  the  head  in  her  direction  he  gave  her.  There  was 


50  THE  MIRACLE 

no  blindness  in  it.     He  knew  well  to  whom  he  gave  his 
thanks,  but  said  no  word  of  them  to  interrupt  his  story. 

"But  with  all  her  sickness,"  he  went  on,  "  'twas  a  great 
hunger  she  had  on  her  to  be  eatin'  the  whole  and  more  of 
what  they'd  be  puttin'  out  for  her  on  the  bed.  An'  'twas 
one  time  when  it  was  tired  of  the  doctors  the  man  was,  they 
tappin'  her  chest  and  listenin'  through  the  hole  of  a  tube  and 
doin'  mad  things  would  never  cure  annywan  of  a  sickness  the 
like  of  what  she  had  on  her,  wasn't  it  that  time  he  went  with 
himself  only  to  an  old  woman  had  her  cabin  under  a  thorn 
tree  up  there  in  the  hills  behind  Cloongarish.  And  it  was 
a  wild  place  he  was  comin'  to  that  day,  with  the  big  birds 
wheelin'  round  it  all  times  with  their  long  cries  and  the 
mists  would  be  comin'  in  great  sweeps  of  darkness  between 
the  gaps  of  the  hills." 

He  took  his  breath  and,  leaning  down,  he  felt  with  his 
hands  at  the  edge  of  the  fire  for  a  piece  of  peat  half  burnt 
to  be  lighting  his  pipe  with.  It  seemed  no  wonder  to  any 
of  them  except  to  Father  Costello  that  he  found  it  in  his 
blindness.  When  he  had  lit  the  crust  of  his  tobacco  he 
went  on. 

'  'Twas  one  room  of  a  cabin  the  old  hag  had  and  no 
chimney  to  it  but  the  door  and  wan  window  only  and  a 
hole  there'd  be  driven  in  the  thatch  of  the  roof.  And  there 
was  herself  sittin  in  the  smoke  of  the  peat  and  an  old  hen 
pickin'  at  the  bits  she'd  be  droppin'  on  the  mud  of  the  floor 
at  her  side." 

Short  of  breath,  the  blind  man  made  many  pauses,  con- 
serving his  strength.  It  was  the  first  of  these  tales  Father 
Costello  had  ever  heard.  Indeed  a  man  might  well  live  his 
whole  life  in  Ireland  and  if  he  did  not  happen  upon  such  a 
moment  in  such  a  place  as  this,  would  never  hear  them  at 
all.  He  looked  about  him  and  saw  the  little  eyes  of  the 
farmer  waiting  and  intent  upon  the  blind  man's  face.  Even 


THE  MIRACLE  51 

the  remoteness  of  Mrs.  Kirwan  was  stirred  to  a  living  in- 
terest. But  it  was  Mary  most  of  all  who  arrested  his  im- 
pression that  here  he  was  close  to  the  life  of  his  people. 
By  the  set  of  her  eyes  and  the  light  that  was  in  them  as, 
with  face  upturned,  she  sat  there  on  the  stool  by  the  bellows 
wheel,  he  could  see  she  was  not  of  that  world  about  them, 
but  was  wandering  in  any  place  where  fancy  led  her. 

"And  what  was  it,  blind  man,  the  old  woman  told  him 
about  his  wife?"  asked  the  farmer. 

"She  asked  him  had  anything  happened  his  wife  had  made 
her  sick,  and  he  said  there  was  nothing  in  his  knowing.  Then 
she  asked  him  had  anywan  come  to  the  house  was  a  stranger 
to  them.  And  when  he'd  thought  a  while,  he  said  there  was 
not.  Then  he  thought  a  while  longer  and  he  remembered 
a  black  dog  that  had  come  straying  to  the  place,  the  way  it 
had  stopped  with  them  in  the  room  the  half  of  one  night, 
eatin*  all  they'd  be  givin'  it  and  it  gone  in  the  mornin'." 

Involuntarily  Mary's  hand  sought  down  to  the  black  head 
of  the  little  dog  that  was  laid  against  her  skirt.  The  move- 
ment was  instinctive.  It  was  protective  too.  With  a  swift 
glance  her  eyes  had  sought  her  father's  face.  It  was  set 
with  his  eyes  upon  the  blind  man's  lips.  She  drew  a  breath 
and  turned  her  own  away,  but  something  in  her  heart  fell 
to  a  sickness  as  he  spoke. 

"Was  it  the  black  dog  had  brought  the  sickness  to  his 
wife?"  he  asked. 

"She  told  him  'twas  not  his  wife  it  was  at  all,"  the  blind 
man  responded,  "but  the  body  of  her  only  and  one  of  Them- 
selves out  of  the  hills  was  in  it.  'Twas  the  black  dog  comin' 
and  goin'  had  taken  her  away.  'And  if  ye'd  like  to  try  what 
I'm  sayin'  is  truth/  said  she  to  him,  'let  ye  take  the  shells 
of  seven  eggs/  said  she,  'and  fill  them  with  water/  said 
she,  'and  carry  them  into  the  room  of  the  house  where 
she'd  be  lyin/  'Supposin'  'tis  not  herself/  he  asked  her, 


52  THE  MIRACLE 

'What  would  I  be  doin'  then  ?'  'Let  ye  take  a  fire/  said  she, 
'and  build  it  up  at  the  end  of  the  bed/  said  she,  'and  when 
'tis  askin'  why  it  is  ye'd  be  lightin*  it  that  way  on  the  floor 
of  the  room,  let  ye  take  her  up  sharply  with  her  body  out 
of  the  bed  and  give  her  a  pitch  into  the  fire.  'Tis  herself 
will  fly  up  then  with  the  smoke  out  of  the  roof,  the  way  she'll 
be  gone  from  ye.'  " 

"Did  ye  know  this  man,  at  all,  blind  man?"  said  the 
farmer,  whose  attention  was  rivetted  now.  So  closely  was 
he  listening  that  his  pipe  had  gone  out  and  all  the  time  there 
was  a  dark  gap  widening  between  the  parting  of  his  lips. 
Father  Costello  stared  at  him  in  an  amaze.  It  was  n&t  so 
much  as  though  he  were  listening  to  a  tale  or  an  adventure 
but,  by  the  fixture  of  his  eyes  upon  the  blind  man's  face, 
as  though  he  were  being  warned  of  the  calamity  of  fate. 
Even  in  his  voice  there  sounded  the  note  of  his  apprehension 
as  he  repeated  his  question.  "Did  ye  know  this  man  yer- 
self?" 

"As  well  as  I'd  know  ye,"  said  the  blind  man,  "an'  I 
sittin'  here  bi  the  fire." 

"And  did  he  do  what  the  woman  of  the  hills  told  him?" 
asked  Mrs.  Kirwan. 

"He  did  indeed,  to  the  word  and  the  letter  of  it." 

"An'  what  happened  him  at  all?" 

"Shure,  he  filled  the  egg-shells  with  water,  he  bringin' 
them  into  the  room  before  her  eyes,  the  way  she'd  be  sittin' 
up  in  the  clothes  of  the  bed  and  lettin'  out  a  laugh  at  him. 
'Never  did  I  see  the  like  of  that  before/  she  cried  out  at 
him,  'and  I  three  hundred  years  in  this  place.' " 

"Glory  be  to  God !"  murmured  the  farmer.  "Wasn't  that 
a  terrible  thing  for  a  man  to  be  hearin'  from  his  own  wife !" 

"Yirra,  didn't  he  know  bi  that,"  exclaimed  the  blind  man 
impatiently,  "  'twas  not  his  wife  at  all  had  said  it.  Wasn't 
she  taken  and  gone  from  him  with  the  black  dog  since  the 


THE  MIRACLE  53 

sickness  came  to  her,  and  wan  of  Themselves  it  was  lyin' 
with  her  body  in  his  bed?" 

In  a  long  silence  they  all  received  this  progress  of  the 
narrative.  In  a  long  silence  Father  Costello  looked  from  one 
to  the  other,  seeing  in  their  faces  the  fact  that  they  had 
utterly  forgotten  his  existence  in  the  room. 

That  these  people  in  the  West  of  Ireland  believed  in  faeries 
he  knew  well,  but  it  was  more  as  a  belief  of  children  he  had 
thought  of  it,  a  wild  imagination,  fancying  it  hears  faerie 
voices  in  the  night  of  the  hills,  believing  there  are  glimpses 
to  be  had  of  little  people  dancing  on  the  faerie  raths. 

Travelling  in  Italy  and  France  as  he  had  done  since  he  had 
left  Dublin,  he  had  greatly  lost  his  touch  with  Ireland  in 
those  most  impressionable  years  when  he  had  come  in  full 
to  appreciate  the  forces  of  life.  The  beauty  of  Rome  had 
captured  him.  The  history  of  his  Church  had  monopolised 
every  interest  of  his  thoughts.  The  force  of  Christianity  had 
swept  through  his  being,  carrying  him  with  it  beyond  the 
thoughts  of  Ireland  or  his  people  at  home,  beyond  all  indi- 
vidualities towards  the  great  mass  of  humanity.  Yet  here, 
older  than  St.  Patrick  or  St.  Daeclan,  was  a  force,  the  force 
of  magic,  of  mystery,  of  miracle  in  the  common  light  of  day 
which,  if  he  had  heard  of  it  at  all,  he  had  treated  with  the 
easy  scepticism  of  youth. 

He  knew  it  was  a  characteristic  of  his  country  and  the 
Gaelic  imagination  still  to  believe  in  a  faerie  world.  He  had 
never  realised  as  now  that  it  was  a  principle  of  faith,  more 
deeply  seated  than  merely  in  the  imagination.  Resting  far 
down  in  the  fundamental  streams  of  human  urgency,  he  was 
finding  it — those  streams  that  dissolve  into  themselves  the 
whole  of  mystery  and,  for  the  soul's  sake  must  live  by  it. 

Some  years  before,  all  the  civilised  world  had  heard  and 
heard  incredulously  of  an  old  woman  being  burnt  to  death 
as  a  witch  in  the  mountains  in  Kilkenny.  Listening  to  the 


54  THE  MIRACLE 

blind  man's  story  in  that  kitchen  room  of  Kirwan's  farm, 
the  priest  remembered  hearing  of  this  event  in  his  youth, 
the  momentary  horror  it  had  brought  him  at  the  thought  of 
the  barbarity  of  her  death,  and  the  way  in  which,  failing  to 
appreciate  the  real  meaning  of  it,  the  tale  of  her  suffering 
had  drifted  out  of  his  mind. 

Here,  in  a  sudden  vision,  without  voluntarily  recalling  it,  it 
came  back.  If  these  were  the  mysteries  they  lived  by,  might 
they  not  well  be  mingled  with  life  and  death?  Was  not  that 
the  history  of  every  belief  that  had  moved  in  the  minds  of 
men?  He  found  himself  startled  into  a  new  realisation. 

The  mysteries  he  believed  in,  the  miracles  of  the  Church 
itself,  the  virgin  birth  of  Christ,  the  resurrection  from  the 
dead,  why  were  these  not  sufficient  to  them  as  they  were  to 
him  ?  In  the  fullness  of  their  numbers  there  in  Ardnashiela, 
they  came  to  Mass  every  Sunday.  With  an  intentness  he  had 
never  expected,  they  listened  to  his  sermons.  On  Saturday 
evenings  there  were  many  of  them,  but  women  mostly,  who 
came  to  him  in  Confession.  Yet  as  he  listened  to  the  blind 
man's  story  and  saw  their  eyes  drawn  to  the  blind  man's 
face,  he  came  to  the  sudden  consciousness  that  religion  did 
not  fill  all  their  needs  of  mystery.  A  force  that,  because  it 
was  pagan  was  none  the  less  real,  was  deeper  rooted.  In 
critical  moments  of  their  lives,  it  might  even  fling  aside  the 
charities  of  Christ.  What  mercy  had  there  been  in  them 
when  they  had  burnt  that  old  woman  as  a  witch  ? 

"Ye'll  find  they're  a  quare  lot,"  Father  Roche  had  said  to 
him  when  he  was  taking  his  first  meal  with  the  Parish  Priest 
at  Killanardrish  soon  after  his  arrival  in  Ardnashiela.  "  'Tis 
not  only  drink  they'd  be  havin'  in  their  blood,  but  supersti- 
tion, an'  I  dunno  wouldn't  they  sooner  give  up  their  pints 
of  porter  than  be  misbelieving  the  strange  things  they'd  be 
seein'  and  hearin'  in  the  hills." 

He  had  accepted  that  statement  as  part  of  the  work  that 


THE  MIRACLE  55 

lay  before  him,  to  uproot  that  superstition  as  you  root  out 
an  encroaching  weed.  Whenever  he  had  heard  stray  talk 
of  the  faeries,  he  had  smiled  at  their  imagination  and  wished 
with  a  kindly  laugh  that  he  could  see  one  of  them  himself. 

But  now,  that  evening,  as  he  sat  in  Kirwan's  kitchen,  he 
found  it  was  more  than  mere  imagination  and  superstition 
he  had  to  contend  with.  Life  needed  its  mystery.  Without  a 
knowledge  of  what  it  could  never  know,  life  was  a  barren, 
shuddering  thing  to  live,  as  lifeless  as  the  moon.  And  here, 
in  their  belief  of  this  tale  to  which  they  were  listening,  was 
tangible  essence  of  the  mystery  they  clung  to.  He  felt,  as 
he  heard  it,  a  moment  of  despair  that  the  teaching  of  the 
Church  could  never  reach  down  far  enough  to  refashion  the 
elemental  motives  of  their  being. 

"And  did  he  light  his  fire?"  he  asked  the  blind  man  with 
such  interest  as  he  would  have  kept  from  his  voice  if  he 
could.  "Did  he  light  his  fire  as  the  old  woman  told  him?" 

"Who's  that  is  speaking  ?"  asked  the  blind  man  querulously. 
"Who's  after  askin'  me?" 

They  told  him  who  had  spoken  and  bade  him  go  on 
with  his  tale. 

"Ah,  shure,  why  would  I  be  tellin'  it,"  he  cried  out  in  a 
louder  voice,  "and  he  laughin'  in  the  sleeves  of  his  black  coat 
would  be  fallin'  over  the  shafts  of  his  hands?" 

"I'm  not  laughing  at  all,  blind  man,"  said  Father  Costello. 
He  did  not  say  he  would  have  given  much  to  laugh.  '  Tis 
not  laughing  at  a  word  of  it  I  am." 

Still  he  hesitated  and  then  an  ungoverned  and  volcanic 
wrath  fumed  up  red  in  the  farmer's  face. 

"Blast  ye — get  on  with  the  tale !"  he  shouted,  and  spat  on 
the  ground  at  his  feet  and  wiped  his  mouth  with  the  back 
of  his  hand. 

The  blind  man  was  bent  with  his  fear  of  the  farmer's 
anger.  It  might  well  indeed  be  for  the  love  of  God  they 


56  THE  MIRACLE 

took  him  beneath  their  roof,  but  the  wrath  of  man  was  not 
far  distant.  He  started  tremblingly  again,  till  slowly  his 
voice  settled  down  to  the  swaying  tone  of  his  narrative. 

"He  lit  his  fire,"  said  he.  "At  the  foot  of  the  bed  he  lit 
it  with  sticks  he  had  broken  from  an  elder  tree  would  be 
growin*  outside  the  house.  And  when  it  was  in  the  flame  of 
its  heat  and  she  askin'  him  why  was  he  lightin'  it  at  all, 
didn't  he  take  her  up  in  his  hands  and  with  the  pitch  he  gave, 
he  flung  her  into  the  heart  of  it." 

"Was  it  gone  she  was  from  him  then?"  whispered  Mary. 

"  'Twas  a  great  belch  of  smoke  out  of  the  fire  there  was," 
said  the  blind  man,  "the  way  it  'ud  be  risin'  out  of  the  roof 
and  the  time  he  was  lookin'  around  with  the  sting  of  the 
smoke  in  his  eyes,  wasn't  he  there  alone  in  that  room  with 
the  sticks  burnin'  and  the  bed  empty  on  him?" 

"Glory  be!"  exclaimed  the  farmer.  "That  was  a  fearful 
way  for  a  man  to  be  losin'  his  wife  surely." 

"There's  some  maybe  wouldn't  mind  what  way  it  was," 
said  Mrs.  Kirwan  slowly. 

It  was  Mary  who  asked  him  was  it  lost  she  was  entirely. 
The  blind  man  shook  his  head. 

'  'Twas  himself  told  me,"  said  he,  "and  the  woman  of 
his  house  sittin'  there  bi  the  side  of  him,  she  not  knowin' 
the  half  of  wan  word  he'd  be  sayin'  or  the  truth  would  be 
comin'  out  of  his  mouth." 

"What  way  did  he  get  her  back  so?" 

He  lit  his  pipe  again. 

"It  was  lonesome  he  was  in  his  house,"  he  continued, 
"with  his  wife  gone  from  him,  and  when  three  months  were 
by  without  sight  or  trace  of  her,  he  went  to  the  old  woman 
in  the  hills  askin'  her  was  there  no  way  for  him  to  be  gettin* 
his  wife  back  from  Them  at  all.  'Next  time  of  a  fresh 
moon,'  said  she,  'when  there's  a  fine  point  on  the  hook  of 
it,  let  ye  go  down  to  the  cross  of  the  roads  is  beyond  Cloon- 


THE  MIRACLE  57 

garish.  And  take  the  coil  of  a  rope,'  said  she — 'and  make 
a  wide  loop  in  it.  'Tis  there  ye'll  see  her  and  she  goin' 
by  with  a  company  of  Them.  And  call  out  her  name/  said 
she,  'in  a  loud  pitch  of  yer  voice  and  the  time  she's  lookin' 
back  at  ye  over  the  turn  of  her  shoulders,  let  ye  cast  the 
rope  with  the  loop  of  it  round  her  neck  and  'tis  then  ye'll 
have  her  cot  from  Them  that  time.' " 

Again  he  paused  for  his  breathing  and  they  spoke  no 
more  to  him  then,  but  waited  in  quietness  for  him  to  tell  his 
tale  as  it  came. 

"Ten  days  he  had  to  be  waitin',"  he  went  on,  "till  the 
moon  was  fresh.  Then  he  took  the  coil  of  the  rope  and  the 
wide  loop  he  had  made  in  it  and  went  out  one  time  in  the 
mouth  of  the  night  to  the  cross  of  the  roads  above  Cloon- 
garish.  And  it  was  waitin'  there  some  time  he  was  before 
he  heard  the  crack  of  a  little  drum  and  the  music  of  pipes  in 
the  tilt  of  the  wind." 

Now  the  blind  man  lowered  his  voice  to  the  fall  of  a 
whisper  almost,  and  with  his  mouth  agape,  the  farmer 
leaned  forward  on  his  chair. 

'  'Twas  a  whole  crowd  of  Them  came  by  that  time,"  he 
said,  and  the  words  he  spoke  were  in  his  throat  rather  than 
upon  his  tongue.  "And  some  were  on  the  backs  of  black 
horses  and  some  on  their  two  feet  walkin'.  Men  and  women 
there  were  and  some  of  them  were  tall  as  the  tallest  man 
ye'd  see  shtandin'  in  the  fair  at  Ballina.  And  there  in  the 
mix  of  Them  was  herself  goin',  an'  she  laughin'  in  a  quare  lift 
of  her  voice  and  he  knew  her  bi  the  walk  she  had  and  the 
way  she'd  be  tossin'  her  head  at  the  laugh.  It  was  'Norah !' 
he  cried  out  then,  the  way  he'd  be  callin'  her  name  three 
times  in  that  dark  place.  And  at  the  third  time  she  looked 
round  over  her  back  at  him.  'Twas  then  he  threw  the  coil 
of  rope  he  had  in  his  hand,  the  way  the  loop  there  was  in  it 
made  a  ring  in  the  air  and  fell  down  on  her  shoulders.  Then 


58  THE  MIRACLE 

he  pulled  with  all  the  power  he  had  in  his  arms  and  'twas 
that  way  he  got  her  back  from  Them  and  shure  they  never 
troubled  herself  again.  And  that's  my  story." 

He  fell  at  once  to  silence  when  he  had  done,  reaching  down 
again  to  the  fire's  edge  for  a  piece  of  glowing  peat  and  for 
the  third  time  lighting  his  pipe.  James  Kir  wan  stood  to  his 
feet  and  knocked  out  the  ashes  of  his  own  that  was  cold  into 
the  flat  palm  of  his  hand. 

They  were  not  awed.  Their  silence  was  only  that  as  of 
people  who  had  heard  bad  news ;  something  that  might  well 
happen  to  themselves  at  any  time;  something  inevitable  al- 
most, like  news  of  death  which  none  of  them,  when  it  came 
their  way,  could  escape. 

"What  man  was  it?"  asked  the  farmer  presently.  "Did 
ye  hear  his  name  at  all?" 

Feeling  by  the  wall  behind  him,  the  blind  man  rose  to 
his  feet. 

"  'Twas  Shawn  Geoghan  was  his  name,"  said  he,  "an' 
'tis  not  the  darkness  is  on  me  would  stay  me  knowin'  him 
anny  place  bi  the  lisp  he  had  on  his  tongue." 

He  took  up  the  stick  that  was  in  the  corner  of  the  hearth 
beside  him  and  sensing  his  direction  shrewdly  by  the  walls, 
he  made  his  way  to  the  door  and  went  out  into  the  sunlight 
of  the  yard. 


VIII 

THEY  remained  there,  much  in  the  same  attitudes  as 
when  they  had  been  listening  to  his  story.     Only 
the  farmer  had  moved  at  its  ending  and  he  still 
stood  where  he  had  risen  to  his   feet,  still  knocking  the 
charred  tobacco  out  of  his  pipe  into  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"That  was  a  quare  wan,"  he  said  under  his  breath.  He 
said  it  over  two  or  three  times  and  then,  announcing  that 
he  was  going  across  to  the  fields  to  see  whether  the  rain  had 
done  any  damage  to  his  corn,  he  turned  and  went  out.  He 
left  the  lower  half  of  the  door  open.  Chickens  came  to  the 
threshold  and  stood  looking  into  the  room  with  eyes  in- 
quisitive for  food  and  foolish  sideward  jerks  of  the  head. 
They  made  querulous  noises,  at  the  sound  of  which  Mrs. 
Kir  wan  picked  up  the  rushes  in  her  lap  and  came  out  of  her 
place  by  the  fire. 

"Is  there  corn  is  in  the  bin?"  she  asked. 

Mary  nodded  her  head.  She  had  no  thought  to  deter- 
mine why  her  mother  was  proposing  to  do  the  work  she 
usually  did  herself.  She  had  no  wish,  evident  to  herself,  to 
stop  her.  Through  the  open  door  into  the  yard,  she  let  her 
go  without  question  and  in  the  dream  that  had  come  to  her, 
she  moved  to  where  the  blind  man  had  been  sitting.  It  was 
as  though  she  felt  the  fire  could  best  respond  to  her  thoughts 
and  she  wanted  to  be  nearer  to  it. 

The  movement  of  Father  Costello  standing  up  to  his  feet 
and  putting  back  his  chair  by  the  deal  table  had  no  sound 
in  it  to  attract  her  attention.  She  stared  at  the  red  glow  of 
the  peat,  then,  more  to  herself  than  to  him,  she  said, 

59 


60  THE  MIRACLE 

"Isn't  it  a  strange  world  where  things  would  be  happen- 
ing the  like  of  that  and  people  with  no  more  power  to  be 
stoppin'  them  than  the  rain  and  it  fallin'  or  the  sea  would 
be  washin'  up  into  the  land." 

Even  with  Father  Costello,  his  mind  seemed  to  be  in  the 
toil  of  nebulous  but  entangling  thoughts  from  which  he  was 
impotent  to  escape.  With  an  effort,  he  shook  the  sensation 
from  him. 

"  'Tis  all  nonsense  and  idle  talk,"  he  exclaimed,  with 
warmth,  "this  wild  chatter  of  foolish  tales.  'Tis  a  shame 
there  ought  to  be  in  your  mind,  Mary  Kirwan,  a  young  girl 
of  these  times  with  the  good  sense  you'd  have  in  you  from 
the  schools,  believin'  the  gossipy  stories  of  an  old  blind  man. 
Isn't  it  bad  pride  he'd  have  in  himself  the  way  you'd  all  be 
listenin*  to  him?" 

At  first  she  looked  up  in  an  astonishment.  Then,  rising 
out  of  her  place  by  the  fire,  she  stood  up  to  her  full  height 
when  her  eyes  came  well  to  meet  his  own. 

"Weren't  ye  listenin'  yeerself  ?"  said  she  in  a  steady  voice, 
for  it  was  a  priest  she  was  talking  to  and  she  was  not  yet 
forgetting  it,  even  with  the  pulse  that  had  started  in  her 
throat. 

"I  was  listening,"  said  he,  "the  way  anny  man  might  be 
listening  to  a  foolish  tale  would  be  told  while  people  would 
be  idling  their  time  around  a  fire." 

"Idling!"  She  had  that  word  clipped  with  her  tongue 
out  of  his  sentence.  There  was  a  hint  of  mimicry  in  her 
voice  as  she  said  it.  "Shure  'tis  not  idling  we'd  be  in  this 
place,  Father,"  said  she,  "the  way  they'd  be  in  the  grand 
houses  of  the  towns  or  the  streets  of  the  great  cities  of  the 
world  where  ye'd  be  passin'  yeer  time." 

He  made  no  pause  to  consider  why  she  had  taken  a  per- 
sonal resentment  to  what  he  had  said.  All  that  concerned 
him  was  that  she  had  not  understood.  Instead  of  urging  him 


THE  MIRACLE  61 

to  an  apology  of  explanation,  it  roused  his  anger  to  think  of 
the  obstacles  in  his  way. 

"Whether  you're  idling  or  whether  you're  working,"  he 
flung  at  her,  "what  good  is  it  to  be  believin'  the  mad  trash 
of  those  tales  are  invented  by  one  man  or  another  while 
they'd  be  going  about !  'Tis  not  things  like  that  the  Church 
'ud  be  teachin'  you  and  'tis  a  shame,  I  say,  for  a  girl  with  all 
the  beauty  you'd  have  in  your  mind  to  be  taking  any  notice 
of  them  at  all." 

She  heard  him  say  she  had  beauty  in  her  mind.  Above 
the  sound  of  his  anger  he  heard  himself  say  it  too.  It  was 
to  linger  with  her  afterwards.  Now  she  thrust  it  out  of 
all  hearing. 

"  'Twas  not  invented  it  was,"  she  cried  out  at  him.  "Didn't 
he  give  the  name  of  the  man,  and  wasn't  it  speakin'  with 
himself  he  was,  had  the  tale  from  his  own  lips?" 

"You  believe  all  that  we  heard  ?"  muttered  Father  Costello, 
as  though  till  that  moment  he  had  not  truly  reckoned  upon 
her  absolute  acceptance  of  the  blind  man's  tale.  "You  be- 
lieve 'twas  the  faeries  themselves  were  in  the  body  of  his 
wife  lying  there  in  his  bed — you  believe — " 

"There's  every  word  I  believe!"  she  retorted  defiantly, 
"and  if  'tis  comin'  here  to  the  house  ye  are,"  she  went  on 
with  words  that  rushed  without  thought  in  a  hot  haste  from 
her,  "and  ye  thinkin'  'tis  all  the  grand  ideas  of  the  world 
ye  can  be  puttin'  into  our  heads,  'tis  sooner  not  seein'  the 
door  open  to  ye  I'd  be  at  all !" 

He  went  straight  over  to  the  barrel  churn  in  the  far  corner 
of  the  room  where  he  had  left  his  hat  and  took  it  quickly  in 
his  hand.  He  knew  he  was  acting  upon  emotional  impulse, 
but  could  not  prevent  himself.  For  the  moment  he  was 
distantly  conscious  of  forgetting  he  was  a  priest.  The  man 
in  him,  chagrined  at  his  failure  to  reach  down  deep  enough 
with  his  faith  into  her  mind,  was  uppermost.  He  wanted  to 


62  THE  MIRACLE 

get  away,  quickly,  out  into  brighter  sunlight,  to  come  down 
to  the  shore  of  the  strand  where  the  waves  were  rushing  in 
the  abating  fret  of  the  storm.  He  wanted  to  feel  the  wind  on 
his  face.  He  knew  he  could  not  regain  himself  from  the 
sting  with  which  her  words  had  smitten  him  while  he  was 
there  alone  with  her  in  that  room.  Yet  to  go,  as  he  was 
doing,  was  only  to  prove  how  much  he  had  felt  them.  The 
mental  predicament  in  which  he  found  himself  exasperated 
him.  He  could  have  called  out  across  the  room  at  her  that 
he  wished  to  God  he  had  never  come  out  to  the  farm  at  all, 
that  they  had  never  been  together  in  the  hay-field,  that  he 
had  never  talked  to  her  as  he  had  done. 

Yet  outwardly,  except  for  the  quick  impulse  of  his  move- 
ments, he  betrayed  none  of  the  impetuous  temper  of  his 
mind.  She  saw  she  had  incensed  him.  She  saw  no  more. 
He  was  going  because  she  had  been  rude,  ill-bred,  the  mere 
farm  girl  that  she  was.  Of  a  sudden  there  was  a  hot  sting- 
ing in  her  eyes.  If  she  could,  she  too  would  have  called 
out  to  him  that  she  had  not  meant  what  she  said  about  his 
never  coming  there  to  the  farm  again.  But  would  he  un- 
derstand that?  He  was  a  priest.  How  had  such  a  situation 
as  this  arisen  in  which  she  wanted  to  say  she  was  sorry  as 
though  she  were  talking  to  an  ordinary  man?  She  found 
herself  suddenly  full  of  emotion,  fluttering  with  it  like  a  bird 
beating  its  wings  in  a  snare.  And  it  was  a  priest,  who  had 
angered  and  then  smitten  her  with  remorse,  a  man  of  God, 
vowed  to  his  Church,  so  far  out  of  her  reach  or  wish  that 
she  wondered  in  an  amazement  at  herself  how  it  had  come 
to  such  touch  with  him  as  this. 

The  door  was  still  open  as  Mrs.  Kirwan  had  left  it.  He 
put  his  hat  on  his  head  as  he  crossed  the  threshold.  She 
saw  him,  black,  unrelieved,  like  a  painted  mass  against  the 
blue  sky  over  the  sea.  The  next  moment  the  sun  lit  him  up 
as  he  stepped  out  on  to  the  cobbled  path  and  was  gone. 


THE  MIRACLE  63 

Perhaps  it  was  for  a  while  because  she  thought  he  would 
return  that  she  stood  waiting.  She  told  herself  she  was  only 
a  farmer's  daughter,  bold  and  ignorant,  and  he  was  a  priest, 
had  great  learning  and  should  be  kind  to  her  for  her  ways. 
Perhaps  because  she  could  not  actually  believe  he  had  gone, 
she  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  staring  at  the  open  doorway. 
Her  eyes  met  and  were  opposed  by  the  blue  of  the  sky  over 
the  roofs  of  the  farm  buildings.  It  was  a  hard  sky  now, 
metallic  and  resisting.  The  hope  in  her  that  he  would  come 
back  became  blunted  against  it.  She  ran  to  the  door  and 
looked  out.  He  was  crossing  the  fields  down  to  the  strand. 
There  was  a  quickness  in  his  walking  and  she  felt  no  thought 
in  him  to  return.  He  was  gone  and  maybe  it  was  never,  as 
she  had  said,  the  door  would  be  opening  to  him  again. 

Her  lip  was  quivering  as  she  drew  herself  with  a  sudden 
weariness  back  into  the  room.  She  had  lost  something  of 
which  it  seemed  she  had  never  really  appreciated  the  value 
until  then.  Having  gone,  she  no  longer  thought  of  Father 
Costello's  intolerance  to  her  belief  in  the  blind  man's  story. 
It  was  the  times  by  the  peat  fire  and  that  long  evening  in  the 
hay-field  she  remembered,  when  he  had  brought  her  the 
sight  of  a  world  outside  her  own  and  ways  of  life  that  had 
given  her  a  new  pride  in  herself. 

A  desolateness  with  the  chill  and  volume  of  deep  waters 
swept  over  her.  She  felt  herself  thrown  back,  drifting,  like 
one  whose  hands  had  come  near  the  grasping  of  a  rock  from 
which  a  wave  had  swept  them  just  when  they  were  catching 
hold. 

At  one  moment  she  was  wishing  he  had  never  come  to 
Ardnashiela,  at  another  that  he  had  never  come  out  to  the 
farm,  never  talked  so  specially  as  it  seemed  he  had  to  her, 
but  had  left  her  alone  with  such  contentment  as  she  had  had. 

Then  she  knew  she  had  never  been  contented.  And  then 
for  those  last  three  months  that  she  had  had  a  joy  and  a  pride 


64.  THE  MIRACLE 

in  herself  greater  than  she  had  ever  known  before.  The 
days  had  lost  the  smallness  of  their  monotony.  They  had 
appeared  in  a  wonder  to  her  and  had  brought  with  them  the 
belief  there  was  something  almost  wonderful  in  herself. 

Last  of  all,  there  leapt  up  in  her  memory  what  he  had  said 
in  the  heat  of  his  words  that  surely  were  too  swift  for  idle- 
ness. She  was  a  girl,  he  had  said  of  her,  with  beauty  in  her 
mind. 

The  exhilaration  that  brought  her  had  the  greater  pain 
now  that  she  realised  he  was  gone.  It  came  back  into  her 
mind  as  blood  returns  into  unaccustomed  veins,  rushing, 
burning,  excruciating. 

A  cry  came  out  of  her  lips,  dumbly  and  involuntarily  as 
an  animal  cries.  But  there  were  no  tears. 


IX 

A*    Mary   had    seen,    Father    Costello    walked    quickly 
through  the  fields  down  to  the  strand.     He  walked 
quickly  with  his  thoughts  at  his  heels  but  could  not 
escape  them.    The  fresh  wind  on  the  shore,  heavy  still  with 
salted  spray,  scattered  them  about  but  in  the  momentary 
hillings  of  it,  they  came  shouting,  crowding  back. 

In  that  kitchen  at  the  farm,  he  had  forgotten  he  was  a 
priest.  All  the  inspiring  visions  he  had  seen  in  Rome,  all 
the  enrapturing  history  of  his  Church  and  the  uplifting 
permanence  of  his  faith  had  slipped  from  him  in  a  moment 
unawares.  When  he  took  up  his  hat  from  the  barrel  churn 
and  strode  out  of  the  door  into  the  sunlight,  eager  to  get 
away,  he  had  been  stripped  of  his  cloth  to  the  mere  habili- 
ments of  a  man. 

How  had  it  happened  ?  It  was  too  late  then  to  go  back  and 
say  he  had  not  meant  to  go,  that  there  was  nothing  but  an 
impulsive  folly  in  his  behaviour,  that  he  was  her  priest, 
chiding  her  for  foolish  superstitions  it  was  his  duty  as  a  man 
of  God  to  root  out  of  her  mind. 

Not  only  would  such  an  action  ring  untrue,  but  it  was 
too  late  to  make  it  even  appear  convincing.  She  must  have 
seen  him  as  then,  in  the  sharp  edge  of  the  wind,  he  saw  him- 
self. Time  only  would  blunt  the  impression  he  must  have 
given.  In  a  month,  maybe,  or  less,  if  he  went  back  to  the 
farm,  she  would  have  forgotten  the  exact  manner  in  which 
he  had  left  her.  The  priest  that  for  the  moment  had  de- 
serted him,  he  could  insinuate  again  with  subtle  suggestion 
and  impress  with  a  delicate  insistence  upon  her  mind. 

65 


66  THE  MIRACLE 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  suddenly  called  out  aloud  to  himself  into 
the  noise  of  the  wind.  "What's  happened  you?  Are  you 
acting  the  priest  of  God  ?" 

A  terror  came  to  him  then.  He  quickened  his  steps  as 
though  it  were  some  physical  thing  he  could  avoid.  In  a  vivid 
poignancy  of  sight,  bereft  of  the  hallucinations  of  his  call- 
ing, he  saw  himself  as  an  impostor,  aping  Christ,  making  a 
mock  of  his  faith. 

Coming  into  the  Main  Street  of  Ardnashiela  from  the 
termination  of  the  strand  in  the  sandstone  rocks,  he  quick- 
ened his  pace  to  the  doors  of  the  little  church.  Entering, 
he  closed  them  behind  him  and  went  up  the  aisle  and  into 
the  chancel  and  fell  upon  his  knees  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

He  prayed — but  he  found  he  was  praying  like  a  man 
offering  the  material  substance  rather  than  the  exaltation 
of  his  thoughts  to  God. 


THE  blind  man's  story  lingered  not  only  in  the 
memory  of  Mary  and  Father  Costello,  but  in  James 
Kirwan's  as  well.  Going  out  of  the  house  to  see 
what  the  storm  had  done  to  his  crops,  he  continued  muttering 
his  remark  all  the  way  to  the  barley  fields. 

"That  was  a  quare  wan,"  he  said  and  every  time  he 
announced  that  opinion  to  himself,  his  mind  centered  upon 
the  black  dog  that  had  appeared  to  Shawn  Geoghan  in 
Cloongarish. 

The  barley  was  swept  down  in  broad  patches  across  the 
fields,  for  the  straw  was  long.  It  lay  prostrate  as  though  a 
machine  had  passed  over  it,  beating  down  the  transparent 
gold  into  hammered  sheets  of  metal.  He  looked  at  it,  but 
scarcely  saw  the  damage  that  had  been  done.  He  was  think- 
ing of  the  black  dog  that  had  appeared  to  Shawn  Geoghan. 
From  this  it  was  not  a  long  turn  for  his  mind  to  take  to 
the  little  black  dog  that  had  found  its  way  straying  to  the 
farm  and  been  claimed  for  companionship  by  Mary.  No 
ill  fortune  had  certainly  come  to  them  since  its  appearance. 
The  cows  had  given  good  milk.  The  crops  were  better  than 
he  remembered  for  some  years.  If  the  rain  had  beaten  down 
the  barley,  a  lot  of  it  might  rise  again.  Without  doubt  it 
was  rain  they  had  wanted  to  fill  out  the  corn  in  the  last 
weeks  of  ripening.  He  had  said  with  truth  it  was  worth 
silver  pieces  to  him. 

But  the  mind  of  James  Kirwan  was  of  that  nature  which 
is  never  contented  with  events  as  they  pass.  Suspicion  ruled 
in  him.  As  Father  Roche  had  said,  he  asked  every  year  for 

67 


68  THE  MIRACLE 

the  corners  of  his  fields  to  be  sprinkled  with  holy  water. 
The  old  man  had  been  shrewd  enough  to  see  the  composition 
of  the  farmer's  mind  in  that  request. 

"  Tis  not  the  blessin*  of  God,  ye  want  at  all,"  he  had 
said,  "but  a  fend  for  the  evil  might  be  comin'  to  yeer  crops 
and  I'll  not  do  it." 

Kirwan's  oaths  to  the  contrary  had  not  persuaded  him. 
He  had  not  done  it.  Alert  with  suspicion  the  farmer  had 
expected  each  year  that  some  misfortune  would  befall  him. 
But  nothing  had  happened  that  could  not  be  accounted  for 
by  natural  means.  For  all  his  complaints,  he  had  had  good 
years.  Beyond  doubt,  he  was  the  most  prosperous  man  in 
Ardnashiela.  If  he  whined  in  his  talk  about  his  failures, 
there  was  no  one  believed  in  them.  Yet  they  were  substan- 
tial enough  to  him,  for  if  they  had  not  happened  as  yet,  he 
was  always  secretly  suspicious  that  they  would. 

At  the  appearance  of  the  black  dog,  he  had  driven  it  off 
the  farm  with  a  stick,  shouting  at  it  down  the  road  with 
the  spleen  of  his  class  and  race  for  a  beast  that  was  not  his 
own.  It  was  when  she  found  it  still  lingering  near  the  yard, 
pitiably  in  need  of  food,  that  Mary  took  it  into  the  cow-shed 
and  gave  it  a  bone. 

A  hungry  dog  has  no  reserve  of  gratitude  when  it  is  fed. 
With  its  eyes  and  that  seeking  pressure  of  its  nose  into 
Mary's  hand,  it  found  its  way  precipitately  into  her  heart. 
She  gave  it  her  confidence.  Here  was  a  friend  to  listen  to 
the  most  secret  of  her  thoughts.  With  the  loneliness  there 
was  for  her  in  the  house  that  meant  no  little.  She  had 
fought  stoutly  with  her  father  to  assert  her  right  to  keep  it. 
When  he  found  that  the  sudden  high  pitched  tempest  of  his 
voice  and  the  fury  that  sprang  flashing  in  ugly  lights  into  his 
little  eyes  was  of  no  avail  to  break  her  unlooked-for  deter- 
mination, he  as  suddenly  subsided.  A  chilled  word  from  his 


THE  MIRACLE  69 

wife  out  of  the  chimney  corner  secured  his  reluctant  con- 
sent. 

"Ah,  shure,  let  her  be  havin'  her  little  dog,"  said  Mrs. 
Kirwan,  and  then  she  had  added  enigmatically,  "there's 
some  might  be  glad  of  a  dog  would  be  comin'  to  them." 

Mary  had  thanked  her  mother  with  a  glance  and  James 
Kirwan,  having  tried  the  flashes  of  his  temper  and  failed, 
said  no  more.  He  went  sulkily  out  of  the  kitchen  and 
slammed  the  door. 

From  that  day  the  dog  had  been  brought  into  the  house. 
Having  no  doubt  from  the  first  as  to  whom  it  owed  alle- 
giance, it  followed  Mary  closely.  Whenever  they  had  a 
meal,  it  sat  touching  her  legs  and  taking  whatever  she  gave 
it  with  a  tacit  understanding  between  them  that  it  was  best 
to  make  no  fuss  even  of  gratitude.  Sometimes  when  it  came 
sniffing  to  her  knees  and  looking  up  with  enquiring  eyes, 
Mrs.  Kirwan  gave  it  the  recognition  of  a  hand  that  patted 
its  head  without  warmth.  The  farmer  himself  it  avoided 
with  a  sure  remembrance  of  the  first  day  it  had  been 
driven  from  the  house.  Whenever  he  came  into  the  kitchen 
it  crept  the  nearer  to  Mary's  skirts.  If  she  was  not  there, 
it  retired  close  to  the  wall  beneath  the  deal  table.  And  the 
more  fear  and  the  more  suspicion  it  showed  of  him,  the 
more  James  Kirwan  mistrusted  and  resented  its  existence 
about  the  place. 

If  Mary  was  not  there  to  restrain  him  and  it  came  within 
his  reach,  he  often  kicked  the  little  beast  as  it  went  by.  The 
fact  that  it  gave  out  no  cry  to  the  blow  increased  rather 
than  softened  his  dislike  of  it.  He  was  annoyed  by  its  lack 
of  response.  He  felt  he  wanted  to  kick  it  until  it  did 
acknowledge  the  infliction  of  pain. 

Then  the  story  of  the  blind  man  had  seemed  to  reveal  to 
the  hasty  suspicions  of  his  mind  what  it  was  he  hated  in 
that  black  creature  with  the  cringing  body  it  always  dis- 


70  THE  MIRACLE 

played  to  him  and  the  furtive  eye  that  followed  him  with 
as  watchful  a  distrust  as  his  own. 

Where  had  it  come  from,  that  black  dog?  No  one  knew. 
Hoping  to  get  rid  of  it,  he  had  enquired  one  day  in  Casey's 
public  house  in  Ardnashiela.  No  one  claimed  it.  The  in- 
creasing consciousness  of  these  circumstances  played  like 
freshening  winds  through  his  thoughts,  fanning  them  to  a 
flame.  And  there  he  stood  at  the  edge  of  his  barley  field, 
letting  the  fiery  tongues  of  suspicion  and  fear  leap  up  one 
after  another,  slowly  consuming  the  peace  of  his  mind. 

He  came  back  to  the  house  through  the  grass  fields  where 
two  months  before  they  had  cut  the  hay.  Even  in  that  short 
while  the  aftermath  looked  greener  for  the  rain.  He  noticed 
nothing.  Deep  in  his  thoughts  there  was  a  purpose  fixed. 
His  small  eyes  narrowed  to  a  mere  cunning  look  as  he 
thought  upon  its  execution. 

What  was  a  dog  after  all  ?  It  ate  its  food  and  slept  about 
on  the  floor,  but  it  brought  nothing  to  the  house.  He  exag- 
gerated in  his  mind  how  much  food  it  did  eat.  It  was  a 
useless,  cringing  beast.  What  a  fool  that  man  in  Cloongarish 
had  been,  not  taking  a  red  hot  turf  out  of  the  fire  and 
throwing  it  at  the  black  dog  that  had  come  to  him.  He 
would  have  had  little  trouble  with  Themselves  if  he  had 
done  that.  Wasn't  he  a  fool  himself  to  be  chasing  the  dog 
down  the  road  with  a  stick?  If  They  had  not  wreaked  their 
vengeance  upon  him  yet,  surely  They  were  bound  to  do  it 
soon. 

Drops  of  sweat  pricked  out  upon  his  upper  lip  at  the 
thought  of  the  things  that  might  happen  to  him.  And  with 
every  thought  a  new  fear  came,  creeping  with  it  into  his 
mind.  What  should  he  do  if  the  dog  had  disappeared  be- 
fore he  got  back?  It  was  in  a  moment,  in  the  turn  of  an 
eye  they  were  gone  sometimes.  Might  it  not  have  Mary  taken 
already  with  the  foolish  affection  she  had  for  it  ?  And  what 


THE  MIRACLE  71 

would  he  be  doing  if,  like  the  woman  in  Cloongarish,  she 
came  to  her  bed  in  a  long  sickness  with  himself  having  to 
pay  a  girl  or  a  man  maybe  to  be  doing  her  work? 

Expediency  threaded  a  recurring  purpose  through  his 
fears.  At  one  moment  he  was  debating  how  he  might  kill  the 
black  dog — if  indeed  the  hand  of  man  could  destroy  it — the 
next  he  was  calculating  in  pounds,  shillings  and  pence  what 
the  loss  of  Mary's  labour  would  mean  to  him.  He  was  in 
a  fume  and  a  sweat  by  the  time  he  got  back  to  the  house. 
But  it  was  not  his  cunning  that  deserted  him. 

His  wife  and  the  blind  man  were  alone  in  the  kitchen. 
The  dark  was  falling.  He  could  see  them  faintly  by  the 
light  of  the  peat.  On  the  hearth,  close  by  the  fire,  lay  the 
dog,  a  shapeless  form,  its  nose  curled  into  its  body,  asleep. 
It  growled  when  he  entered,  lifting  its  head  and  staring  at 
him  with  quickened  eyes  that  were  glittering  and  black  in 
that  half-light. 

"One  of  these  days,"  said  Kirwan,  "that  beast'll  make 
a  good  dog  keepin'  the  house.  Shure  if  he  growls  at  meself 
won't  he  be  barkin'  the  deuce  and  all  at  a  strange  man  or 
woman,  the  way  we'll  have  no  more  tinkers  come  thievin' 
about  the  place?" 

With  the  nerve  of  his  cunning  he  walked  across  to  it  and 
patted  its  head. 

"Good  dog,"  he  muttered.  "Good  dog,"  and  they  knew, 
neither  of  them,  the  shuddering  he  had  as  his  hand  touched 
it  or  the  fear  in  his  mind  that  if  he  looked  away,  it  would 
be  gone  before  he  could  look  back  again. 

It  surely  seemed  as  he  stared  at  it  that  it  must  know  well 
what  was  in  his  mind.  He  detected  a  fresh  fear,  not  of 
blows,  in  the  furtive  glance  of  its  eye.  Yet  it  was  not  fear 
that  it  appeared  to  be  to  him  but  a  sharpness  of  wits  whereby 
it  might  escape  him  even  then. 

With  all  the  crude  invention  of  his  cunning,  he  began 


72  THE  MIRACLE 

talking  of  the  rabbits  he  had  seen  in  the  barley  field  where 
the  corn  was  broken  down  by  the  rain. 

"If  that  dog  was  good  at  the  fetchin',"  said  he,  "wouldn't 
he  be  a  good  beast  now  for  a  man  to  be  havin'  on  a  farm?" 
He  reached  for  his  gun  over  the  chimney  and  with  a  simu- 
lated carelessness  in  all  his  movements,  broke  it  and  looked 
through  its  barrels  into  the  fire. 

Mary  was  not  there.  A  need  for  haste  was  spurring  him 
lest  she  should  come  back.  No  less  a  need  for  casual 
deliberation  was  warning  him  against  any  unnatural  dis- 
play of  speed.  As  he  dropped  some  cartridges  into  his 
pocket,  Mary's  absence  had  a  sudden  seeming  of  strangeness 
to  the  ready  suspicion  of  his  mind  in  that  state  of  fear. 

"Where's  herself  ?"  he  asked. 

"Gone  into  her  bedroom." 

"What  for?" 

"  'Twas  like  she  was  sickening.  Shure,  I  could  get  no 
word  out  of  her  at  all." 

If  he  had  any  doubt  of  the  matter  as  he  came  down  from 
the  barley  field,  there  was  none  in  him  now.  He  looked 
down  at  the  dog  with  fear  and  anger  and  distrust  sharpen- 
ing the  quick  lights  in  his  little  eyes. 

"Where's  the  father  to  be  puttin'  his  blessin'  on  the 
house?"  said  he. 

"He's  gone  back  to  Ardnashiela." 

Distressed  with  his  apprehensions,  the  farmer  swallowed 
in  his  throat.  Even  circumstance  was  full  of  threatening. 
With  an  overwhelming  conviction,  he  felt  that  nothing  in 
that  place  would  be  right  with  him  until  the  dog  was  killed. 
It  shivered  and  shrank  from  his  hand  when  he  patted  its 
head  again.  To  the  softest  blandishments  of  his  voice,  it 
seemed  to  wither  into  itself. 

"Let  ye  come  along  with  me,"  he  said  coaxingly,  "and 
we'll  see  quickly  is  there  any  sport  in  ye  at  all." 


THE  MIRACLE  73 

He  slipped  the  gun  under  his  arm  and  dragged  the  dog  to 
its  feet.  Whatever  fear  he  had,  he  was  mastering  it  with 
the  determination  to  rid  himself  of  its  cause.  Days  after- 
wards he  knew  there  would  be  a  wonder  in  him  that  he 
could  do  what  he  was  doing  then. 

In  a  still  voice  that  had  meaning  in  the  very  absence  of  its 
expression,  Mrs.  Kirwan  asked  him  why  he  was  making  a 
fool  of  himself,  dragging  that  dog  out  to  be  hunting  rabbits. 

"Isn't  it  wastin'  yeer  time  ye  are,"  she  said  calmly,  "and 
the  dog  struck  with  a  fright  of  ye  ?" 

In  all  their  life  together,  James  Kirwan  had  scarcely  been 
aware  of  his  wife;  he  certainly  had  never  been  sure  of  her. 
He  was  in  no  mood  to  be  sure  of  any  one  then.  The  remote- 
ness in  her  voice  from  the  fear  he  was  suffering  whipped 
up  the  froth  of  his  anger. 

"What  the  hell's  that  to  ye?"  he  shouted.  "Shure  the 
dog's  been  fed  in  the  house.  Isn't  there  right  he  should 
earn  the  food  he'd  be  havin'  ?" 

He  was  afraid  now  of  his  own  anger  betraying  him.  He 
wanted  to  get  out  of  the  room  before  he  said  any  more. 
With  a  piece  of  cord  he  had  in  his  pocket,  he  made  a  noose 
and  slipped  it  round  the  dog's  neck,  dragging  it  across  the 
floor  to  the  door.  Mrs.  Kirwan  watched  him  with  a  quiet 
comprehension  in  her  eyes,  but  made  no  movement  to  hinder 
or  stay  his  going.  The  blind  man  sat  listening  to  the  resist- 
ing claws  scratching  against  the  mud  floor  as  the  wretched 
creature  was  dragged  away. 

"If  she  wants  to  know  where  is  it  at  all,  shall  I  tell  Mary 
ye've  gone  out  shootin'  rabbits  with  the  dog?"  she  asked. 
Her  lips  and  eyes  were  inscrutable.  It  was  impossible  to 
say  whether  she  was  smiling  or  not. 

"Ye  can  tell  her  any  damned  thing !"  he  shouted  back  and 
he  slammed  the  door  as  he  went  out. 

The  blind  man  fell  to  turning  the  bellows  wheel.    By  the 


74  THE  MIRACLE 

light  of  the  thin  flames  that  licked  about  the  peat,  Mrs. 
Kir  wan  bent  over  the  plaiting  of  the  rushes  in  her  lap.  There 
was  a  fulness  in  the  silence  when  the  farmer  had  gone.  It 
was  as  though  the  spirit  of  his  intentions  and  his  fears  had 
remained,  lingering  on  like  echoes  imprisoned  in  a  cave.  Sit- 
ting there  by  the  fire  they  listened  to  them. 

"  'Tis  no  dog  to  be  catchin'  rabbits,"  said  the  blind  man 
presently. 

"It  is  not,"  said  she. 

"  Tis  a  dog  is  trained  ye'd  be  wantin',  with  eyes  is  sharp 
and  a  quick  scent  to  it." 

"It  is  indeed." 

"Shure  that  dog  had  no  scent." 

"It  had  not.  " 

"Didn't  I  feel  the  coat  it  had  and  'tisn't  the  darkness  is 
in  me  eyes  would  hinder  me  knowin'  'twas  no  dog  to  be 
chasin'  a  hare  or  anny  runnin'  thing  at  all." 

He  waited  for  an  answer  to  that  as  though  their  voices 
had  become  a  pendulum  swinging  to  'ind  fro  and  then  he 
said, 

"That  dog'll  be  gettin'  in  the  way  of  the  gun*  maybe,  the 
time  he  lets  off  with  it." 

"That's  what  it'll  be  doin',"  she  replied. 

There  the  pendulum  of  their  voices  ceased  its  swinging 
and  it  was  at  this  moment,  Mary  came  into  the  room.  The 
blind  man  paused  turning  the  wheel.  Lifting  the  milk  white 
of  his  eyes,  he  stared  across  the  fire  at  Mrs.  Kirwan  as 
though  he  might  see  whether  she  were  going  to  tell  what  had 
happened. 

She  said  nothing.  Her  head  was  bent.  She  did  not  look 
up  when  Mary  came  across  to  them.  Her  entrance  into  the 
room  had  welded  the  silence  rather  than  broken  it.  It  was 
the  heavier  with  her  presence.  And  then,  as  though  it  had 
been  what  they  were  waiting  for,  her  voice  shattered  it  with 


THE  MIRACLE  75 

a  sharp  note,  asking  where  was  her  dog.  With  a  fresh 
energy  the  blind  man  turned  to  his  wheel.  Mrs.  Kirwan 
looked  up,  meeting  the  gaze  of  Mary's  enquiry  with  eyes 
that  had  no  light  of  information  in  them. 

"  "Tis  gone  out  with  himself  it  is,"  she  replied. 

"What  for?" 

"Shootin'  rabbits." 

"Shootin'!" 

That  was  a  word  that  hit  on  her  ears  like  the  sudden  blow 
striking  upon  a  gong.  It  rang  and  reverberated  through 
every  sense  in  her.  If  her  heart  had  been  sick  with  her 
thoughts  of  Father  Costello  as  she  lay  on  the  bed  in  her 
room,  it  was  near  to  vomiting  now. 

WTith  a  cry  she  could  not  contain  in  her  lips,  she  ran  to 
the  door. 

"Which  way  has  he  gone?"  she  cried  out  and  struggled 
with  the  latch  her  fingers  were  too  eager  to  undo. 

"  'Twas  to  the  barley  fields  he  said,"  replied  Mrs.  Kirwan 
imperturbably. 

Mary's  foot  slipped  on  the  sill  of  the  door.  She  fell  with 
a  cry,  half  of  anger,  half  of  fear,  such  as  an  animal  makes 
when  it  falls  in  pursuit.  Her  body  had  speed  in  it  even  be- 
fore she  had  recovered  to  her  feet. 

There  was  a  drift  of  cloud  low  down  on  the  horizon,  still 
lit  to  a  reflected  fire  of  orange  from  the  sun  long  set  behind 
the  headland.  She  seemed  to  disappear  into  it  and  was  gone. 

The  farmer's  wife  laid  down  the  rush  bag  she  had  just 
finished  at  her  side.  Cutting  some  slices  of  tobacco  from  a 
roll  of  plug,  the  blind  man  churned  it  round  and  round  in 
the  palms  of  his  hands. 

"There's  no  soul  would  be  in  a  dog,"  said  he,  "an'  'tis 
not  a  quick  death  would  be  anny  harm  to  it." 


XI 

THERE  was  a  faint  chrome  light  about  the  fields. 
All  that  was  darker  than  the  sky  was  smudged  with- 
out edges  in  deep  masses  of  brown.  Even  the 
broken  lines  of  the  loose  stone  walls  were  soft  as  velvet 
against  the  land.  Catching  that  mellow  light  there  was  in 
the  air,  the  sea  looked  like  a  sheet  of  heavy  steel  brushed 
with  a  thin  wash  of  gold. 

Scarcely  able  to  see  the  places  for  her  feet  as  she  ran, 
Mary  sensed  her  way,  familiar  with  every  field  and  every 
gap  in  the  broken  walls.  She  went  in  a  direct  line  to  the 
barley  field,  making  no  distance  to  gain  the  passage  of  a  gate. 
The  loose  stones  fell  as  she  scrambled  over  the  walls.  More 
than  once  she  fell  herself.  A  pressing  fear  sped  her  to 
quick  recoveries.  Little  cries  of  her  voice  came  soon  with 
the  shortness  of  her  breath.  It  might  have  been  a  score  of 
miles  and  always  she  knew  she  would  be  too  late. 

There  was  never  an  instant  of  doubt  in  her  mind  as  to 
what  her  father  had  meant  when  he  went  out  shooting  rab- 
bits. The  dog  would  not  have  followed  him.  He  must  have 
dragged  it  there,  and  to  the  barley  field,  the  farthest  corner 
of  their  land.  If  never  once  during  the  telling  of  the  blind 
man's  story  his  eyes  had  turned  to  the  little  creature  that  lay 
against  her  skirt,  she  had  divined  his  thoughts — perhaps  be- 
fore they  had  any  birth  in  his  own  consciousness. 

Every  moment  as  she  ran  she  was  listening.  Beyond  the 
heavy  sounds  of  her  own  breathing,  her  hearing  was  strain- 
ing out  through  the  yellow  twilight  for  the  report  of  a  gun. 

76 


THE  MIRACLE  77 

Until  that  had  reached  her  ears  she  pressed  a  hope  against 
her  heart  to  keep  it  from  bursting. 

A  potato  field  of  some  few  acres  lay  before  her.  The 
earth  was  sodden  with  the  rain.  It  clung  and  gathered  and 
clogged  her  feet  with  lead.  Her  cries  were  heavy  now — a 
stifled  moan  with  every  breath.  There  was  that  field  only  to 
cross.  The  barley  field  lay  beyond.  She  was  stumbling 
more  than  running  now.  Her  body  was  bent  and  over  the 
furrows  it  swayed  and  reeled  with  the  motion  of  a  drunken 
man. 

It  was  not  only  the  strain  upon  her  strength,  the  heaviness 
of  the  ground  fettering  her  feet,  or  the  distance  she  had  to 
go.  Fear  was  poisoning  her  endurance  whilst  all  the  time 
it  urged  her  on.  At  one  moment  she  was  struggling  surely 
and  then  in  an  instant  every  motion  was  arrested.  Her 
limbs  refused  her.  Lot's  wife  turned  to  the  pillar  of  salt 
could  not  have  stood  more  still  than  she. 

There  broke  through  that  quietness  of  evening  the  report 
of  a  gun,  a  violent  shattering  sound,  and  then  another  that 
followed  swiftly  after  it.  After  that,  the  stillness  was  full 
of  death  about  her.  She  was  past  the  sound  of  a  cry  from 
her  lips,  of  any  audible  or  visible  sign  of  what  she  felt. 
While  there  was  hope,  she  could  struggle  on,  giving  voice  to 
her  fears.  The  reports  of  that  gun  over  there  in  the  barley 
field  had  ended  then.  It  was  not  fear  she  felt  now  but  a 
sickness  as  at  the  sight  of  blood  and  the  nauseating  horror 
of  the  violence  of  death. 

Presently  her  limbs  began  to  move  again,  carrying  her 
unconsciously  towards  the  barley  field  as  though,  so  deeply 
impressed  had  been  her  will  upon  their  motion,  that  now, 
when  all  voluntary  effort  in  her  was  dead,  they  acted  auto- 
matically in  a  mechanical  reflex. 

She  reached  the  stone  wall,  conscious  for  the  first  time  in 
her  wonder  how  she  had  come  there.  Dragging  her  body 


78  THE  MIRACLE 

up  by  the  steps  of  the  projecting  stones,  she  looked  over  the 
top.  For  one  moment  she  swayed.  It  was  not  for  balance. 
The  next  instant  she  was  scrambling  over  the  stones,  one 
scream  after  another  rushing  wildly  through  her  lips  in  a 
dementia  of  anger,  horror  and  revolt. 

Down  in  a  dip  of  the  ground,  at  the  edge  of  the  swaying 
corn,  on  the  unploughed  headland  of  the  field,  her  father 
was  standing,  beating  with  the  butt  end  of  his  gun  a  writhing 
black  mass  that  twisted  and  turned  spasmodically  at  his  feet. 
With  every  blow,  he  was  grunting  in  his  breath.  With 
every  evasion  of  the  death  he  was  seeking  to  give,  he  mut- 
tered curses  and  spat  the  name  of  God  and  the  Virgin  in 
supplication  out  of  his  mouth.  It  was  the  life  it  seemed  to 
cling  to  that  terrified  him.  Having  missed  the  wretched 
beast  entirely  with  his  first  shot  and  wounded  it  but  slightly 
with  the  second,  he  had  taken  to  the  butt  of  his  gun  in  an 
agony  of  fear  that  had  deprived  him  of  every  instinct  of 
pity.  The  fury  of  his  impatience  was  not  to  put  the  dog 
out  of  its  pain.  He  was  killing  it  to  save  himself  from  his 
own  terror.  One  blow  after  another  was  wild  and  missed 
its  mark.  The  more  desperate  he  grew,  the  more  uncertain 
was  his  aim.  He  was  breaking  every  bone  in  its  trembling 
body,  but  the  blow  that  would  have  stilled  it,  in  the  frenzy 
of  his  mind,  was  beyond  the  power  of  his  delivery. 

At  the  piercing  sounds  of  Mary's  voice,  he  looked  up.  It 
was  no  more  than  a  swift  glance.  He  saw  the  impetuous 
rush  of  her  coming,  the  demented  figure  she  looked  in  the 
uncertainty  of  that  deepening  twilight.  The  shawl  she  wore 
over  her  head  had  fallen  loose.  One  end  of  it  was  a  black 
stream  behind  her.  Her  hair  was  scattered  and  fell  about 
her  face.  In  that  glance  he  could  see  the  dark  gap  of  her 
open  mouth  as  she  screamed.  All  the  time  he  had  known 
this  would  happen.  From  the  moment  he  had  left  the  door 
of  the  house,  with  his  wife's  parting  enquiry  in  his  ears,  he 


THE  MIRACLE  79 

had  been  sure  in  his  mind  that  it  would  happen  before  the 
end. 

Mingling  with  his  fear  of  the  dog,  a  fear  of  Mary  herself 
had  found  its  way  without  his  knowing  it  into  his  blood. 
After  that  one  quick  glance  up  the  field,  he  redoubled  his 
blows  as  though  he  thought  that  even  then  she  might  save 
the  life  of  that  twitching  mass  of  flesh  at  his  feet.  If  there 
was  a  madness  in  her  at  the  sight  of  what  he  was  doing, 
there  was  no  less  a  madness  in  him  to  be  doing  it. 

By  the  time  she  reached  him  and  had  thrown  the  whole 
impetuous  weight  of  herself  against  his  body  and  flung  him 
back,  the  wretched  beast  was  lying  inert  and  lifeless  beneath 
that  last  shower  of  blows. 

He  laughed  when  he  saw  it  still  at  last.  It  was  high- 
pitched  laughter,  the  departing  shout  of  his  fears  as  they 
left  him.  The  black  dog  was  dead.  Death  was  a  sure  remedy. 
It  would  fret  him  no  more  with  its  slinking  ways  about  the 
house.  When  he  laughed  a  second  time,  it  was  high  in  the 
nature  of  his  voice,  but  lower  than  before.  The  temper  of 
his  confidence  was  returning  to  him.  He  became  fully 
aware  then  of  Mary  clinging  to  him  as  he  stood,  of  her 
breath,  beating  and  sobbing  against  his  chest,  of  her  arms 
binding  his  with  convulsive  clutchings  and  fingers  that  tore 
at  the  sleeves  of  his  coat. 

He  pushed  her  away.  She  stumbled  and  fell  to  the 
ground,  lying  in  a  disordered  heap  with  her  body  heaving 
for  its  breath  and  her  heart  filling  her  breast  and  her  throat 
with  its  beating.  She  had  not  looked  at  that  quivering 
thing  again.  Her  first  thought  had  been  to  lock  his  arms, 
to  break  the  force  of  even  one  more  blow  before  it  fell. 
It  had  been  beyond  her  to  think  of  a  greater  mercy  and  let 
him  end  it  all. 

But  when  he  laughed,  she  knew  it  was  over  then.  She 
was  too  late  as  she  had  thought  she  would  be.  It  was  his 


80  THE  MIRACLE 

laughter  more  than  the  shaking  free  of  his  body  and  the 
thrusting  her  off  with  his  arms  that  had  flung  her  away. 
There  was  no  wish  or  power  in  her  to  stand  and  face  him 
then. 

He  looked  at  the  stock  of  his  gun  that  was  a  dull  red  with 
the  grease  of  blood.  Stooping  down,  he  wiped  it  amongst 
the  couch  grass  growing  high  at  the  foot  of  the  wall.  Then 
he  looked  at  her. 

"Get  up  to  yeer  feet,  Mary,"  he  said  with  no  voice  of  com- 
passion. "Didn't  I  tell  ye  at  all  times  I  didn't  want  that 
bloody  black  dog  in  the  house?  'Tis  meat  dead  it  is  now 
an'  shure,  what's  the  heavin'  is  on  ye?  Get  up,  I'm  sayin'!" 
He  lifted  her  with  his  foot  but  she  clung  in  a  passion  of 
revolt  to  the  earth  she  was  lying  on. 

He  opened  the  breach  of  his  gun  and  took  out  the  empty 
cartridges,  dropping  them  on  the  ground  and  turning  away 
from  her  with  contempt  that  came  easily  now  that  his  fears 
were  gone. 

"Ye'll  be  a  damn  fool  of  a  girrl,"  he  called  back  over  his 
shoulder,  "if  ye  stay  lyin'  there  in  the  fallin'  dews.  Isn't 
it  a  good  thing  I've  done  for  yeer  self  this  night  with  Them- 
selves sendin'  that  black  beast  to  be  takin'  ye  away  an'  it 
lyin'  there  now  where  death  'ud  have  it  all  the  days  of  time  ?" 

He  paused  a  moment  to  see  if  she  would  respond  to  that. 
She  did  not  move  more  than  the  lifting  and  falling  of  her 
body  against  the  earth.  He  climbed  the  wall  and  left  her 
there.  She  could  do  as  she  wished.  It  was  certainly  not 
her  company  he  wanted  to  be  walking  back  to  the  house  with 
him ;  nevertheless  there  lingered  a  fear  in  him  that  even  with 
that  thing  dead  by  the  side  of  her  there  might  be  harm  com- 
ing to  her  somehow.  Whatever  it  was,  it  was  not  strong 
enough  to  detain  him.  He  walked  away  across  the  potato 
field  and  faded  into  the  full  darkness  of  night  that  was  com- 
ing up  from  the  sea. 


THE  MIRACLE  81 

For  a  long  stretch  of  time  she  lay  where  he  had  left  her. 
Slowly  then  the  course  of  her  thoughts  came  back  into  the 
steadying  flow  of  her  mind.  And  most  of  all,  it  was  the 
words  she  had  said  to  Father  Costello  that  repeated  them- 
selves again  and  again  like  a  measure  throbbing  in  her 
brain. 

"Isn't  it  a  strange  world  where  things  'ud  be  happenin'  the 
like  of  that  and  people  with  no  more  power  to  be  stoppin' 
them  than  the  rain  and  it  fallin'  and  the  sea  would  be  washin* 
up  into  the  land." 

For  all  this  time,  she  had  not  dared  to  look  at  what  she 
knew  was  beside  her.  It  was  not  courage  that  came  to  her 
at  last  but  her  fear  that  turned  into  the  slower  channels  of  her 
mind.  With  the  sensation  of  a  chill  wind  blowing  gently 
across  her  forehead  and  about  her  lips,  she  raised  herself 
and  stretched  out  her  hand  that  trembled  as  it  touched  the 
softness  of  fur.  Without  thinking,  for  the  thought  could 
scarcely  have  come  to  her,  a  rush  of  pity  pressed  her  hand 
on  its  body.  Then  she  cried  out  again.  She  could  feel  the 
broken  bones  and  the  lifeless  pulp  that  it  was. 


PART  II 


JOE  FENNEL,  that  for  some  time  had  had  little  fortune 
with  his  fishing,  sat  on  the  sea  wall  mending  his  nets. 
A  group  of  men  and  women  were  gathered  there,  chat- 
tering as  rooks  do  that  gather  from  habit  in  a  certain  tree. 
At  their  feet,  in  the  street  of  Ardnashiela,  a  broad,  open 
space  there  where  the  sea-wall  terminates  it  and  rises  in 
solid  masonry  to  protect  the  village  from  the  encroaching 
sea,  a  cluster  of  children  sprawled  and  wriggled  in  the  dust. 
With  their  skirts  and  their  shirts,  their  pink  legs  and  their 
brown,  red  faces,  they  were  like  a  swarm  of  coloured  in- 
sects, crawling  over  each  other  in  a  blindness  of  busy  pur- 
pose. 

It  was  a  hot  and  cloudless  day  at  the  end  of  that  month 
of  August.  Faint  emerald  and  misted  blue,  the  sea  lay  be- 
hind them,  a  sheeted,  enamelled  setting  to  the  dark  hair  and 
coloured  shawls  of  the  women  and  the  soft,  broad-brimmed 
hats  of  the  men.  Their  outlines  were  cut  upon  it  with  the 
edges  of  flint. 

There  was  a  foreign  look  in  the  picture  it  made  to  the 
eyes  of  Father  Costello  as  he  came  down  the  street  of  the 
village  to  climb  the  cliff  path  for  his  morning  walk  round 
the  open  headlands.  The  dark  rocks  slipped  down  into  the 
still  shimmer  of  the  sea.  Drifts  of  light  in  washes  of  liquid 
pearl  dissolved  the  far  line  of  it  into  the  sky.  There  was 
no  beginning  of  it — no  end.  It  hung  there  in  faint  suspense, 
a  coloured  web  of  water  and  air  behind  them.  With  all 
their  talk  and  their  laughter  they  stood  out  sharp  against 
his  eye. 

86 


86  THE  MIRACLE 

He  waited  a  moment  to  look  at  them,  thinking  how  near 
to  the  nature  of  the  earth  they  were,  as  though  they  might 
have  been  lizards  basking  in  the  sun.  When  he  realised 
they  had  become  aware  of  his  watching  them,  he  waved  his 
hand.  It  was  as  if  it  were  to  children  he  waved  it. 

"Good  morning,  all  of  ye!"  he  called  out. 

"Good  morning,  Father,"  they  called  back.  "Good  morn- 
ing !  Good  morning !"  Not  a  voice  that  did  not  respond  to 
his  salutation. 

He  turned  away  up  the  road  of  the  solid  rock,  past  the 
fishermen's  cottages  and  took  tfie  cliff  path  winding  out 
through  the  gorse  and  heather  to  the  headlands.  Their  re- 
sponse lingered  like  a  chant  in  his  ears  till  the  music  of  it, 
growing  fainter  and  fainter,  was  lost  in  the  silences  over  the 
glassy  sea.  He  sat  down  on  a  ledge  of  rock  where  the  sea 
pinks  cushioned  with  their  wiry  roots  in  the  crevices.  Three 
hundred  feet  the  cliff  descended  in  jutting  balconies  to  the 
lapping  water  below.  About  his  head,  circling  and  sweeping 
downwards  in  sheer  descents,  the  gulls  sped,  crying  their 
notes  of  joy  and  breaking  the  light  with  the  scythe  of  their 
wings. 

There  was  no  real  tide  of  happiness  in  him  or  he  would 
have  seen  all  this  in  the  penetration  of  its  beauty.  He  knew 
it  was  there;  but  as  he  sat  looking  over  the  sea  it  was  as 
though  he  were  in  a  shadow  with  the  sun  falling  beyond. 
Ever  since  that  evening  at  Kirwan's  farm  his  mind  had  been 
in  the  shade  of  life.  The  thought  of  what  he  had  done 
fretted  him.  It  fretted  him  still  more  that  for  three  weeks 
he  had  not  been  near  the  house.  Most  of  all  it  fretted  him 
to  feel  a  need  in  every  thought,  dragging  him  there  against 
his  will.  Wet  or  fine  those  days,  he  had  turned  against  the 
way  of  the  strand  and  sought  the  headlands  and  the  open 
air  to  read  his  breviary.  More  often  than  was  his  wont  he 
prayed.  They  were  prayers  as  he  had  offered  them  that 


THE  MIRACLE  87 

day  in  the  chapel,  solid,  material  distractions  for  his  mind — 
poor  substitutes  for  the  quick  impulse  of  spirit. 

It  seemed  almost  at  times  there  was  a  sickness  upon  him. 
Yet  he  had  laughed  at  himself  when  for  a  moment  he  had 
thought  of  driving  in  the  nine  miles  to  Doonvarna  to  see  a 
doctor.  What  could  a  doctor  do  that  he  could  not  accom- 
plish with  his  own  will !  Courage  came  and  went  from  him 
like  running  water.  His  purpose  swayed  in  a  balance  of 
insecurity.  He  wanted  to  destroy  the  impression  he  had 
left  upon  Mary  Kirwan  and  feared  to  do  it  lest,  in  the  at- 
tempt, he  were  to  prove  himself  still  more  a  man. 

He  had  realised  the  loneliness  of  Ardnashiela  when  first 
he  came  there,  but  it  was  nothing  to  the  loneliness  he  felt 
then,  as  he  sat  on  that  ledge  of  rock,  with  the  sea  birds 
wheeling  and  crying  in  the  air  and  the  water  melting  with 
a  mist  of  heat  into  the  sky. 

They  sat  on  the  sea  wall  discussing  him  long  after  his 
black  figure  was  out  of  sight  round  the  first  headland. 
Shrewd  comparisons  with  a  coarseness  of  truth  they  made 
between  him  and  his  predecessor.  He  stood  as  it  were  in 
the  centre  of  their  life  there  in  that  corner  of  the  world. 
They  listened  to  his  sermons.  They  asked  his  advice.  They 
confessed  their  sins  to  him.  There  was  not  a  woman 
amongst  them,  had  not  admitted  him  into  secrets  of  her 
mind  that  were  sealed  to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

"I'd  sooner  be  goin'  confessin'  a  murdher  to  himself,"  said 
one  of  them,  "than  I  would  tellin'  the  tattle  of  a  tale  to 
Father  Roche  in  Killanardrish." 

Remembering  a  sin  of  thought  she  had  felt  constrained 
to  confess  to  him,  there  was  another  to  agree  heartily  to 
that. 

"I'd  sooner  be  makin'  a  sin  in  meself  than  not  goin'  to 
him  at  all,"  said  a  third,  whose  reputation  entitled  her  to 


88  THE  MIRACLE 

the  shout  of  laughter  with  which  they  all  greeted  this  ad- 
mission. 

It  was  talk  like  this  they  were  making  amongst  them- 
selves, close  to  the  nature  of  the  earth,  as  Father  Costello 
had  seen  them.  If  there  was  a  coarseness  in  it,  there  was  a 
simpleness  too.  Where  they  touched  life  they  were  like 
children  talking  in  wonder  of  a  mysterious  game  the  rules  of 
which  were  beyond  their  administration. 

Most  of  those  who  sat  there  were  fishermen  and  their 
wives,  mending  their  tackle  or  waiting  in  idleness  with  eyes 
turned  often  to  the  sea,  watching  for  the  signs  they  read  the 
water  by.  At  the  very  end  of  the  wall,  close  to  Fennel 
himself,  there  was  an  old  man  sitting.  He  had  spoken  no 
word  that  morning.  His  hands  placed  one  upon  another 
were  leaning  on  a  blackthorn  stick  that  supported  the  droop- 
ing weight  of  his  shoulders.  The  lower  part  of  his  body 
was  resting  on  the  stones.  With  the  shrewd  reserve  of  old 
people,  he  had  just  been  listening  to  their  talking.  At  last, 
in  a  pause  of  their  laughter  and  joking,  he  said  in  the  thin 
pipe  of  his  voice  that  Father  Costello  was  unlike  any  man 
he  had  seen  who  was  a  priest. 

When  they  asked  him  why  and  his  lips  first  played  with 
his  answer,  they  waited  because  he  was  an  old  man  and  had 
seen  long  years  of  the  world.  Presently  he  said, 

"There's  a  look  in  his  eyes  doesn't  belong  to  him." 

They  asked  him  was  it  the  way  he  meant  he  was  a  man 
was  not  true  to  himself  and  he  said  it  was  not  that  way  he 
meant  it  at  all. 

"For  a  man  can  be  true  in  himself,  surely,"  he  said, 
"and  there  be  other  things  in  him  he'd  know  nothing  about." 

He  let  them  have  silence  with  themselves  for  a  while, 
thinking  over  what  he  had  meant  by  his  words.  But  he 
knew  there  was  not  one  of  them  had  understanding  because 
the  women  fidgetted  with  their  hands  at  their  shawls  and  in 


THE  MIRACLE  89 

their  hair  and  the  men  in  the  silence  were  spitting  on  the 
ground.  Fennel  only,  who  had  not  looked  up  at  any  time, 
was  bent  down  over  the  work  at  his  nets. 

With  a  smile  then  that  had  a  wistfulness  in  it  because  he 
was  sorry  for  them,  the  old  man  began  telling  them  the  tale 
of  a  man  who  lived  where  he  was  fishing  in  his  youth  in 
the  islands  off  the  West  of  Galway. 

They  edged  their  bodies  along  the  wall  to  be  nearer  to 
him  because  it  was  a  story  they  understood  better  than  any 
saying  of  words  at  all.  The  women  pressed  close  together, 
leaning  forward  to  watch  his  face,  while  two  men  got  up 
from  the  place  where  they  were  sitting  and  squatted  on  a 
pile  of  ropes  at  his  feet  to  be  looking  at  him.  And  it  was 
just  this  attention  he  wanted  to  be  telling  this  tale.  He  was 
a  very  old  man  and  there  was  vanity  in  him  to  think  he 
could  gather  them  about  him. 

This  man,  he  said,  had  the  same  look  in  his  face  as  Father 
Costello.  He  had  never  seen  it  in  any  other  man  but  one. 
Married  the  man  was,  with  two  children.  His  wife  was  a 
clumsy,  dirty  woman,  so  that  every  one  wondered  in  the 
place  why  had  he  married  her  at  all.  All  the  same,  he 
spoke  well  of  her  to  his  neighbours  and  said  if  it  was  dirty 
she  was,  she  made  no  more  trouble  in  the  house  but  what 
they  would  be  clearing  up  after  her. 

"But  'twas  easy  seen,"  the  old  man  told  them,  "it  was 
not  contented  in  himself  he  was.  He  stood  fairly  by  her, 
however,  and  would  listen  to  no  one  saying  a  word  against 
her.  But  there  was  the  look  was  always  in  his  eyes." 

He  shifted  the  hold  of  his  stick  while  he  looked  at  them 
all  to  see  if  there  were  any  more  straying  in  their  minds 
from  his  tale.  All  round  he  looked  and  when  he  saw  all 
eyes  watching  him  but  Fennel's,  he  went  on. 

"It  was  one  night  he  was  picking  weed  off  the  shore 
after  a  storm.  He  wanted  it  to  lay  for  manure  on  the  little 


90  THE  MIRACLE 

patch  of  land  he  had.  'Twas  that  time  he  saw  a  woman  in 
the  water  where  it  was  clear  and  deep  over  a  spread  of 
sand  at  the  foot  of  the  rocks.  She  was  singin'  to  him  and 
her  voice  was  like  water  runnin'  over  the  lips  of  the  stones 
into  a  pool.  'Twas  then  he  went  out  into  the  water,  leavin' 
the  weed  he'd  gathered  in  a  heap,  till  he  came  to  her.  She 
put  her  arms  that  were  like  smooth  peeled  branches  round  his 
neck,  and  they  were  cold,  he  said,  with  the  sea  and  the  salt 
that  was  on  them.  Then  he  went  away  with  her  that 
night  out  into  the  sea  where  she  called  him.  'Twas  him- 
self was  gone  that  time  from  his  wife  and  the  children  he 
had  for  three  years.  And  when  he  came  back,  the  look 
was  taken  out  of  his  eyes  he  had  that  didn't  belong  to 
him.  He  was  just  like  anny  man  ye'd  see  out  on  the 
roads.  But  in  two  months'  time,  wasn't  he  dirty  the  way 
she  was  herself?  The  last  time  I  passed  his  house,"  the 
old  man  concluded,  "the  thatch  was  broken  on  it  and  the 
water  droppin'  in  through  a  hole  in  the  roof  and  the  ducks 
scrabblin'  their  beaks  in  the  pool  it  'ud  be  makin'  on 
the  floor." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  story  had  been  begun,  Fennel 
looked  up  from  his  nets. 

"Was  it  more  contented  he  was  in  himself  after  that?" 
he  asked. 

The  old  man  wiped  a  drip  from  his  nose  with  the 
back  of  his  hand. 

"There's  no  man  is  contented,"  said  he,  "has  lost  a 
part  of  himself,  even  if  it  never  belonged  to  him.  Wasn't 
it  goin'  often  to  the  shore  after  that  time  he  was  and  'twas 
not  for  the  need  he  was  lookin'.  Hadn't  they  sold  the 
bit  of  land  he  had  while  he  was  away  to  be  keepin'  the 
house  and  there  was  nothin'  was  his  but  the  few  stones 
would  be  in  front  of  his  door." 

"It  was  one  of  Themselves  had  him  taken,"   said  the 


THE  MIRACLE  91 

woman  still  remembering  the  sin  of  her  mind.  "Isn't 
it  all  ways  and  all  times  They'd  be  comin'  to  ye?  'Tis 
little  differ  there'd  be  whether  they  took  what  was  belongin' 
to  ye  or  what  was  not.  Isn't  it  yeerself  must  go  with 
them?" 

Fennel  finished  the  last  tear  he  was  mending  where  a 
dog  fish  had  bitten  through  the  hemp.  With  a  deftness 
that  looked  strange  to  his  fingers,  he  tautened  the  knot 
on  the  rope. 

'  'Tis  those  have  great  qualities,"  said  he,  "and  those 
have  no  content  with  themselves  would  be  troubled  always. 
I  never  heard  of  one  yet  was  easy  in  their  mind  had  that 
sort  of  trouble  at  all." 

They  all  talked  this  way  after  the  old  man's  story  and 
there  was  no  more  laughter  amongst  them.  The  woman 
with  the  bad  reputation  who  had  lost  her  man  and  lived 
alone  in  a  cabin  on  the  Doonvarna  Road,  sat  pulling  at  her 
hands  and  listening. 

'  'Tis  those  have  no  content,"  said  she,  "would  be  worse 
troubled." 

They  had  no  laughter  for  her  at  that,  for  it  was  not 
her  bad  living  she  was  thinking  of,  but  the  dark  nights 
when  she  was  alone  with  the  long  road  outside  her  door  and 
the  curlews  crying  through  the  storms  over  the  peat  bogs. 

Fennel  stood  up  to  hang  out  his  nets  and  it  was  then 
he  saw  Mary  Kirwan  coming  towards  Ardnashiela  by  the  way 
of  the  strand. 


II 

MANY  times  since  the  death  of  her  dog,  Mary 
had  remembered  the  reproaches  of  Father  Cos- 
tello.  If  her  father  had  believed,  as  he  believed, 
it  would  never  have  happened.  This  had  set  her  wonder- 
ing and  distressed  her  with  doubt.  Was  he  right  after  all? 
Was  it  a  harmful  thing  to  believe  in  the  trouble  the  faeries 
could  bring  to  those  who  opposed  them?  It  had  seemed 
harmful  enough  in  this.  But  what  of  the  man  in  Cloon- 
garish  and  all  the  stories  she  had  heard  by  the  peat  fires? 
There  must  be  something  to  explain.  Without  that  faith, 
what  was  there  left  to  believe  when  all  these  things  were 
happening  in  the  world?  It  was  not  God  if  He  had 
mercy  who  could  let  them  be. 

Always  at  the  end  of  these  searchings,  she  found  her- 
self clinging  to  her  faith  to  make  life  possible.  What  was 
left  her?  Without  it  the  whole  world  became  void  and 
desolate  like  the  peat  bogs  below  the  black  hills  of  Boon. 
For  surely  it  was  better  for  those  dreary  spaces  to  be  the 
haunt  of  the  spirits  of  evil  than  with  the  cries  and  the 
sounds  they  heard  and  the  lights  they  saw  moving  across 
them  to  say  nothing  was  there  at  all  but  the  coming  and 
going  of  God. 

"Yirra,  what  would  the  Almighty  God  be  wantin'  Him- 
self in  the  wild  drifts  of  a  peat  bog?"  she  asked  herself, 
"an*  He  sittin'  all  the  days  of  the  year  in  a  bright  place 
in  the  golden  vaults  of  Heaven." 

Yet  these  very  questionings  had  smitten  her  conscience 
the  more  when  she  thought  of  the  way  she  had  spoken  to 

92 


THE  MIRACLE  93 

the  priest  and  the  bold,  ill  manners  she  had  had.  Never 
for  a  moment  had  it  seemed  to  her,  as  it  had  to  him,  that 
he  had  lost  the  dignity  and  the  quality  of  his  calling. 

It  was  a  proud  way  he  had  gone  across  to  the  churn 
and  taken  up  his  hat.  There  was  something  in  his  silence 
when  he  went  out  of  the  house  that  made  her  feel  shame, 
hot  in  her  cheeks,  whenever  she  thought  about  it.  And 
she  had  thought  of  little  else  in  those  three  weeks  of  his 
absence  from  the  farm.  For  what  hurt  in  her  most  of 
all  was  the  loss  of  his  company  and  that  pride  she  had  in 
herself  when  he  was  talking  to  her. 

She  had  spoken  the  hope  in  the  words  of  her  prayers 
at  night  that  he  might  come  back  again.  But  he  had  not 
come.  Again  and  again  she  had  made  excuses  to  go  into 
Ardnashiela  in  the  hope  of  seeing  him  in  the  street  or 
walking,  maybe,  on  the  strand.  She  had  not  found  him. 

Only  at  Mass  had  she  seen  him,  when  his  robes  and 
his  office  and  the  chanting  of  his  voice  made  him  seem 
further  away  from  her  even  then  by  his  absence.  Once, 
in  the  first  moments  of  her  remorse,  she  had  thought  of 
going  to  confession,  of  admitting  the  faults  of  her  boldness 
to  himself,  a  priest  of  the  Church.  He  would  see  by  that 
she  was  sorry  for  what  she  had  said.  It  would  not  be 
hard  for  him  to  absolve  her  from  that.  In  a  childlike 
simplicity,  she  saw  him  pronouncing  forgiveness  and 
thereby  making  it  possible  for  him  to  come  out  to  the  farm 
again  and  talk  to  her  once  more  as  though  nothing  had 
happened. 

But  when  she  beheld  him  officiating  at  Mass  that  scheme 
— and  it  was  more  of  a  scheme  than  true  penitence — lost 
all  its  potency.  It  was  not  that  way  she  would  get  near 
enough  to  him  to  restore  the  pride  he  had  given  her.  The 
wide  gulf  of  the  Church  was  between  them.  She  felt 
the  existence  of  it  like  the  sea.  Coming  home  along  the 


94  THE  MIRACLE 

strand,  she  looked  out  into  the  Atlantic  and  told  herself 
that  it  was  distances  such  as  that  which  were  between  them 
and  never  realised  that  in  the  very  consciousness  of  that 
distance  she  was  already  rousing  her  heart  to  span  it. 

With  all  the  fatality  there  was  about  her,  shadowing  in 
her  eyes,  reflecting  itself  in  the  paleness  of  her  face  and 
that  slight  drooping  that  was  about  her  lips,  Mary  Kirwan 
was  alike  in  the  simple  ingenuousness  of  her  mind  to  all 
those  children  of  Nature  living  on  the  desolation  of  that 
coast.  She  acted  upon  her  unbidden  and  unchallenged 
impulses.  Her  thoughts  were  no  more  than  sensations  rising 
to  the  surface  of  speech,  muttered  often  in  her  breath. 

The  fatality  that  she  had  was  outside  and  remote  from 
her  psychology.  Had  it  in  any  sense  been  composed  in 
the  fabric  of  her  mind,  Father  Costello  would  doubtless 
have  found  in  her  no  more  than  the  farmer's  daughter, 
finer  in  looks  than  most  of  that  class,  but  a  crude,  coarse 
nature,  designed  for  no  better  than  the  earthiness  of  the 
soil  she  lived  on. 

It  was  not  so  he  had  discovered  her.  With  the  old  song- 
maker,  he  too  had  seen  that  presence  of  fate  drawing  her 
beyond  the  world  that  she  might  walk  her  own  ways  of  life. 
She  must  in  some  sense  have  felt  it  too,  yet  it  had  never 
entered  into  the  capacity  of  the  conscious  mind  of  any  of 
them.  Only  the  wandering  song-maker  from  Connemara 
had  seen  it  and  he,  in  the  uprush  of  inspiration,  unable 
doubtless  to  trace  the  thought  from  which  it  came. 

And  there  was  even  more  to  it  than  this.  That  fatality 
was  not  confined  in  her  being.  It  drew  others  with  it.  It 
had  drawn  Costello,  the  priest.  It  had  drawn  Fennel, 
the  fisherman.  All  who  saw  it  in  her,  felt  the  dragging 
eddies  of  it  about  them.  Since  she  had  grown  into  the 
woman  she  was,  there  had  been  others,  but  they  had  kept 


THE  MIRACLE  95 

away.  They  feared  the  issue  perhaps  and  sought  the 
quieter  streams  of  life. 

These  two  men  were  of  that  fibre  that  Fate  involves  in 
her  ravellings.  The  simple  credulity  of  the  one,  the  eager, 
hungry  enquiring  of  the  other,  they  were  bound,  without 
knowledge  of  what  was  happening  to  them,  to  be  drawn 
into  the  fate  of  Mary  Kirwan. 

With  some  men  as  it  is  with  some  women,  Fate  impet- 
uously concerns  herself.  They  must  live  out  as  it  were 
to  a  fixed  purpose  of  Destiny  from  which  there  is  no 
turning  either  to  right  or  left.  With  their  own  wills  even 
they  contribute  to  the  ultimate  issue  as  though  something, 
inscrutable  in  the  affairs  of  life  yet  inevitable  to  their  prog- 
ress, has  essentially  to  be  achieved. 

In  all  history,  sometimes  far-reaching  enough  to  be  seen, 
sometimes  remaining  inscrutable  through  all  the  long  ranges 
of  time,  these  men  and  these  women  are  to  be  found  effect- 
ing the  hidden  purposes.  Fate  marks  them.  There  is  a 
look  in  their  eyes,  a  fatal  sense  about  them.  Whenever  they 
wander  over  the  wide  acres,  they  are  to  be  recognised, 
though  few  may  know  them. 

If  Fennel  had  never  come  into  shelter  from  the  storm, 
if  Father  Costello  had  never  been  sent  by  the  Bishop  to 
Ardnashiela,  the  destiny  of  Mary  Kirwan  would  not  have 
been  altered. 

It  was  not  the  seed  of  David  fate  needed  to  yield  its 
fruit  in  the  Son  of  Man,  but  a  woman,  and  with  that  same 
look  doubtless  in  her  eyes  that  had  branded  her  for  suf- 
fering. 

That  morning,  as  it  had  been  with  all  the  others,  Father 
Costello  was  not  to  be  seen  in  the  street  of  Ardnashiela. 
Her  eyes  ranged  everywhere,  to  every  open  doorway,  to  the 
steps  of  the  chapel  itself,  looking  for  a  sight  of  him.  She 


96  THE  MIRACLE 

might  have  believed,  had  she  not  seen  him  at  Mass,  that 
he  had  left  the  village  altogether. 

In  John  Foley's  store — the  one  shop  in  Ardnashiela — she 
heard  a  woman  speaking  of  him  and  it  was  her  heart  it 
seemed  as  well  as  her  senses  that  stopped  to  listen.  She 
wondered  then  for  a  moment  what  it  was  that  had  happened 
to  her  to  feel  as  she  did.  But  never  did  her  mind  approach 
the  subtle  analysis  of  introspection.  The  simple  answer  to 
all  her  questions  came  back  again  and  again,  always  in  the 
same  way.  He  was  a  priest.  If  he  had  brought  honour 
to  herself  and  that  pride  she  felt  when  he  talked  to  her, 
wasn't  it  a  grand  thing  for  any  girl  of  her  like  to  be  having? 
It  was  more  than  Julia  Mahon  had,  or  any  of  the  girls 
she  knew.  Didn't  they  hear  him  from  the  pulpit  only 
and  for  all  they  might  say,  it  was  not  the  same  as  him- 
self talking  to  her  alone  in  the  hay-fields  when  all  the 
workers  had  gone  into  the  house  and  the  little  finches 
were  flying  without  fear  so  still  they'd  be  standing  together. 
That  was  her  pride;  that  he  talked  to  her  at  all.  But 
she  kept  it  locked  in  her  and  never  boasted  of  it  to  any  one. 

There  was  no  abatement  to  her  expectancy.  The  moment 
she  came  out  into  the  light  of  the  street  from  that  dingily 
illuminated  shop  that  smelt  of  tallow  and  dried  goods,  of 
linen  and  woollen  things  that  had  been  stored  for  many 
months,  her  eyes  searched  quickly  up  and  down.  On  fine 
days  such  as  that,  all  those  who  had  an  idle  hour  collected 
by  the  sea  wall.  There  was  no  sight  of  Father  Costello. 
Only  one  man  was  in  the  street.  He  crossed  from  the' 
other  side  to  meet  her.  It  was  Joe  Fennel. 

For  three  weeks  she  had  forgotten  all  about  him,  the 
promise  she  had  made,  even  the  advice  that  Father  Cos- 
tello had  given  her.  As  he  crossed  the  road  to  speak  to  her, 
it  all  came  back  to  her  with  the  noise  of  Fate  in  it. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  of  what  Father  Costello  had  said, 


THE  MIRACLE  97 

planting  the  idea  already  to  seed  in  hidden  ways  in  her  mind. 
She  made  no  reckoning  of  that.  All  she  knew,  as  Fennel 
approached  her  and  escape  became  impossible,  was  that 
here  was  the  man  her  life  would  be  mated  with  were  she 
to  walk  a  thousand  miles  from  that  place  to  be  free. 

He  shifted  his  hat  as  he  came.  It  was  a  gesture,  half 
salute  as  of  the  hand  to  the  forelock,  half  in  a  poor  imitation 
of  the  way  he  had  seen  young  men  lift  their  hats  to  girls 
in  the  streets  of  Doonvarna. 

"I  saw  ye  come  along  from  the  strand  into  the  street," 
said  he. 

She  told  him  she  came  there  often  to  Foley's  for  the 
things  they'd  be  wanting  in  the  house. 

"I've  seen  ye,"  he  admitted.  "Anny  time  I've  not  been 
out  in  the  boat,  I've  seen  ye,  but  I  wouldn't  bother  ye  speakin' 
till  it  was  a  day  as  fine  as  the  like  of  this." 

She  looked  at  the  sky  about  them  as  though  questioning 
it  for  what  he  meant  by  that.  The  little  deception  served 
no  purpose. 

When  he  saw  that  glance  of  her  head,  he  reckoned  it 
was  natural  enough  she  had  forgotten  her  promise.  She 
was  not  for  him,  though  the  fate  there  was  in  it  pressed 
him  on.  If  he  knew  little  hope,  he  knew  no  discourage- 
ment. 

With  stilted,  awkward  sentences  he  reminded  her  of 
that  afternoon  in  the  cow-sheds — the  storm — their  talk- 
ing together  and  the  promise  she  had  made. 

"This  is  the  first  real  fine  day  we've  had,"  said  he.  "It 
isn't  meself  would  be  botherin'  ye  to  keep  it  till  then." 

She  could  easily  have  said  they  wanted  her  at  home,  that 
she  had  not  told  them  she  would  be  out  for  long,  that  there 
was  work  in  the  farm  she  must  be  doing.  There  were 
countless  excuses  she  could  have  made  to  the  unexpected- 
ness of  his  reminder.  But  there  was  a  friendliness  about 


98  THE  MIRACLE 

him,  clear  there  in  his  face,  a  stability  of  reserve  too  that 
made  her  feel  she  could  talk  to  him,  somewhat  as  she  had 
talked  to  her  dog.  Like  her  dog,  she  was  aware  of  an 
honest  dumbness  about  him  in  which  the  most  sacred  con- 
fessions of  her  thoughts  would  lie  buried  for  all  time  if 
not  forgotten.  She  could  even  ask  him  about  Father  Cos- 
tello— if  he  knew  why  the  priest  had  not  been  out  to  the 
house  for  these  three  weeks,  and  it  would  mean  nothing  to 
him.  There  would  be  less  suspicion  in  him  than  there  was 
in  herself.  It  seemed,  as  she  looked  at  him  there  before 
her,  waiting  for  her  answer,  it  would  frighten  her  less 
to  be  speaking  to  him  than  aloud  to  herself  as  she  often 
did  when  she  was  alone  and  the  sensations  she  had  came 
to  words,  like  bubbles  rising  to  the  upper  surfaces  of  her 
mind. 

It  was  nothing  more  than  a  sensation  now  that  she 
could  trust  him  which  rose  in  her  when  she  said  she 
would  keep  her  promise. 

He  stood,  bewildered  with  the  sudden  fortune  of  life, 
watching  her  as  she  went  back  into  Foley's  shop  to  leave 
her  parcels  till  she  returned. 

All  the  way  down  to  the  boat  cove,  he  walked  like  one 
who  sets  his  stride  to  a  tune  that  is  in  the  air  about  him. 
For  her  sake  as  well  as  his  own,  he  avoided  passing  the 
sea-wall  because  of  the  laughter  they  would  all  make  and 
the  jests  they  would  throw  after  them  to  see  him  going 
out  on  the  water  with  a  young  woman. 

It  was  alone,  as  it  would  always  be,  that  he  wanted  her. 
If  his  life  had  been  lonely,  he  needed  no  more  than  herself 
to  fill  it,  sitting  with  him  by  the  fire  and  eating  their  food 
together.  If  any  sexual  thought  came  to  him  about  her, 
it  frightened  him,  as  it  frightened  him  always  to  be  taking 
the  communion  at  High  Mass.  He  shuddered  often  when 
the  wafer  was  put  upon  his  tongue  lest  his  teeth  should 


THE  MIRACLE  99 

break  it.  He  trembled  when  he  thought  of  her  lying  close 
to  him  through  the  whole,  long  darkness  of  night. 

He  felt  as  though  he  could  lift  the  boat  in  his  arms  to 
launch  it.  She  stood  on  the  rocks  waiting  until  he  brought 
it  over  to  her  in  the  deeper  water.  He  was  standing  knee 
deep  in  the  sea  as  he  helped  her  in.  The  first  touch  of  her 
hand  perhaps  meant  nothing  to  him,  there  was  a  subtlety 
in  her  for  it  to  have  meaning.  She  realised  the  simple 
power  in  the  coarse  grain  and  the  grip  of  his  fingers.  But 
once  seeing  her  there  before  him,  as  he  leant  and  pulled  on 
the  stroke  of  his  oars,  was  like  a  harbour  coming  after  the 
long  darkness  of  a  storm. 

"  "Tis  a  quare  thing,"  he  said  presently,  when  they  had 
passed  the  first  low  headland  and  the  roofs  of  Ardnashiela 
were  hidden  beyond  the  cliffs,  "  'tis  a  quare  thing  ye 
livin'  always  in  the  noise  of  the  sea  an'  yeerself  never 
goin'  out  anny  time  on  the  water." 

"Shure,  I  never  had  anny  man  to  be  askin'  me." 

She  sat  as  still  as  one  of  those  wooden  figure  heads  that 
carry  the  bow-sprits  of  the  sailing  ships  upon  their 
shoulders.  He  smiled  to  see  how  still  she  sat. 

"There's  no  fear.  Ye  can  move  in  the  boat,"  he  told 
her.  '  'Tis  not  tossin'  her  about  ye'll  be,  the  way  the  waves 
have  her  sometimes." 

"Isn't  it  terrible  when  the  waves  are  big  like  they'd 
be  breakin'  on  the  strand  in  a  storm?" 

It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  think  he  could  impress  her 
or  any  one  with  boasting. 

"It's  like  as  if  the  hands  of  the  Almighty  God  had  got 
hold  of  ye,"  he  said  simply,  "the  way  they'd  be  tossin' 
ye  like  a  straw  would  be  cot  in  the  rushes  of  the  wind." 

"Aren't  ye  afraid?" 

He  answered  straightly  that  he  was  not. 

"But  shure  death's  a  lonely  thing,"  she  insisted,  "when 


100  THE  MIRACLE 

'tis  only  the  cold  of  the  waters  'ud  be  over  ye,  and  no  priest 
to  be  sayin'  the  last  words  would  bring  a  resting  to  yeer 
soul." 

Scarcely  dipping  his  oars,  he  sat  wondering  for  a  while 
how  she  could  think  like  that  with  the  sea  about  them  as 
still  as  the  face  of  glass  and  the  sun  hot  upon  it  so  that 
the  boat  moved  through  a  quivering  air,  with  the  water 
lapping  against  the  gunwales  like  the  low  whistling  of  a 
bird. 

Presently  he  raised  his  oars  out  of  the  water,  resting 
on  them  and  looking  at  her,  so  that  at  first  she  met  his 
eyes  and  then,  because  of  the  meaning  there  was  in  them, 
turned  her  own  away.  For  a  while  they  were  like  this 
with  the  sea  in  a  shimmering  silence  round  them  and  the 
cliffs  in  a  warm  glow,  smudged  with  light  against  the  sky. 
She  had  never  felt  herself  so  far  away  from  the  world 
before  and  tried  to  centre  her  mind,  looking  at  the  water 
that  was  dripping  in  globes  of  pearl  from  the  blades  of 
his  oars.  The  sea  took  them  and  melted  them  into  itself. 
It  was  all  a  liquid  pearl. 

She  was  not  afraid  of  him,  even  though  they  were  so 
far  from  the  land  and  the  world  seemed  misted  away  from 
her  till  she  could  believe  it  was  possible  for  her  never 
to  come  back  to  it.  He  was  so  simple  a  man  that,  though 
she  had  had  her  premonition  when  they  had  met  in  the 
street,  it  was  not  in  any  sense  that  he  would  master  her 
fate.  She  had  seen  herself  mated  to  him  rather  as  things 
happen  than  as  a  strong  hand  brings  them  about.  She 
had  not  even  supposed  he  thought  so  much  of  her  as 
to  need  her.  Men  amused  themselves  with  women.  Often 
the  girls  in  Ardnashiela  were  taken  out  in  the  boats  by  the 
fishermen.  She  had  heard  their  cries  of  laughter  on  Sun- 
days across  the  water  of  the  bay.  From  the  hysterical 
sound  of  it  she  had  never  wished  to  be  one  of  them. 


THE  MIRACLE  101 

Fennel  there  with  her  was  not  the  kind  to  tease  a 
woman.  No  doubt  it  was  that  which  Father  Costello  had 
meant  when  he  had  said  he  was  the  only  man  it  would  be 
well  for  her  to  go  with.  He  must  have  seen  what  she  saw 
that  morning.  He  must  have  known  what  lay  before  her. 
How  had  he  known  it? 

But  she  believed  it  was  a  long  distance  from  her  yet. 
There  was  a  certain  comfort  in  the  security  she  felt  that, 
with  the  man  Joe  Fennel  was,  she  could  keep  it  from  her 
as  long  as  she  chose.  Too  little  experience  she  had  or  not 
enough  shrewdness  of  observation  perhaps,  to  realise  the 
emotions  running  strong  and  deep  in  the  slow  but  certain 
heart  of  her  companion. 

This  is  the  man  a  woman  trusts  and  she,  was  trusting 
herself  with  him. 

It  was  as  though  a  storm  had  suddenly  risen,  beating  up 
the  water  of  that  quiet  sea  into  the  waves  he  had  said  were 
like  the  hands  of  God,  when  he  leaned   forward  on  his 
seat  so  that  his  face  came  close  to  hers  and  he  said — 
"Mary—" 

It  was  all  upon  her  then  and  when  least  she  had  expected 
it.    She  looked  up,  startled,  as  though  she  had  heard  a  voice 
calling  her  name  from  the  shore. 
"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  wantin'  ye,"  he  replied.  "I'm  a  lonely  man  and  I'm 
wantin'  ye." 

She  stared  away  to  the  cliffs  as  though  there  were  help 
for  her  there  and  her  eyes  found  and  fixed  themselves  upon 
a  black  speck,  motionless,  like  a  fly  settled  and  clinging  to  the 
far-off  face  of  the  world. 


Ill 

THERE  were  two  ideas,  joining  simultaneously  to 
the  same  issue,  in  Mary's  thoughts.  In  a  sudden  and 
unexpected  moment  life  had  swiftly  closed  upon 
her.  She  wanted  to  escape.  All  sense  of  her  security  had 
vanished  upon  an  instant.  It  was  not  Fennel  she  was 
afraid  of.  There  was  no  thought  in  her  that  he  had  taken 
advantage  of  her  being  alone  there  with  him  in  the  boat. 
Her  loneliness  and  defencelessness  were  not  of  his  con- 
triving. With  a  feminine  sense  of  that  which  lay  beyond  the 
region  of  her  intelligence,  she  knew  him  to  be  an  instru- 
ment merely.  She  would  have  believed  him  had  he  told 
her  he  had  thought  he  would  never  speak  of  the  thing 
that  was  in  his  heart  to  say. 

It  was  from  the  unseen  hand  wielding  the  sword  that 
she  was  shrinking.  In  a  swift  glance  of  premonition  she 
had  seen  it  that  morning.  Now  it  was  beating  the  air 
with  its  song,  loud  and  penetrating,  in  her  ears.  Below 
his  breath  almost,  with  the  intensity  of  his  emotions,  Fen- 
nel had  spoken  out  his  heart  in  a  simple  phrase,  "I'm 
a  lonely  man  and  I'm  wantin'  ye." 

There  could  scarcely  have  been  plainer  speech  for  her 
to  hear  than  that ;  yet  the  tone  of  his  voice  might  have  been 
stentorian.  It  struck  like  a  hammer,  beating  a  blow  upon 
her  heart.  In  the  simplicity  of  his  words,  it  was  as  though 
she  heard  him  saying,  "I  want  to  take  ye  out  of  yeer 
dreams  and  the  great  pride  that  was  comin'  to  ye.  'Tis  the 
weight  of  life  I  want  to  be  puttin'  on  ye,  the  way  ye'll  be 
liftin'  yeer  head  no  more  to  be  listenin'  to  grand  talk. 

102 


THE  MIRACLE  103 

Isn't  it  like  all  the  rest  of  the  women  ye  are  and  what 
would  they  be  doin'  but  scrubbin*  the  floor  and  mindin'  the 
childer  and  boilin'  the  food?  What  else  would  they  be 
doin'  but  that  and  no  joy  to  'em  all  the  days  of  time  as  long 
as  water  runs?"  This  was  all  that  was  conscious  to  her. 

She  wanted  to  escape  from  him  then  before  she  heard 
any  more.  With  that  thought  quickened  to  importunate 
impulse,  she  had  turned  her  eyes,  searching  to  the  cliffs, 
a  warm  mist  of  colour  in  the  heat  and  light.  And  then 
the  sight  of  that  black  speck,  clung  motionless  to  the  face 
of  the  rocks,  had  doubled  her  impulse  to  an  uncontrollable 
desire. 

It  was  Father  Costello.  Without  any  knowledge  of  his 
movements  or  the  habits  of  his  time,  she  knew  it  was  no  one 
else.  Instinct  informed  her  of  it  with  a  convincing  voice. 
Then  she  thought  if  only  she  could  be  free  of  where  she 
was  and  out  there  on  the  cliffs,  she  could  find  him  as  for 
all  these  weeks  she  had  been  seeking  to  do.  If  only  she 
could  speak  to  him  in  the  quietness  of  any  place,  as  they 
had  been  quiet  and  alone  in  the  hay-field,  she  could  make 
him  realise  her  penitence  for  the  boldness  of  her  speech 
that  day.  Her  heart  was  crying  to  be  free,  yet  in  a  kindness 
of  some  deep  sense  of  pity  she  had  for  the  fisherman,  she 
knew  she  must  soften  the  disappointment  to  him. 

She  felt  her  whole  body  trembling  with  the  urgent  de- 
mand of  purpose  as  she  turned  back  again  to  face  him. 
He  was  looking  down  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  between 
the  gap  of  his  knees.  It  was  as  though,  having  made  his 
confession,  he  was  afraid  to  look  at  her  lest  he  should 
know  her  answer  too  soon. 

When  she  spoke,  he  looked  up.  All  he  saw  in  her  face 
was  fear  when  he  had  expected  revolt,  repulsion,  contempt 
— anything  but  that. 


104  THE  MIRACLE 

"Why  didn't  ye  tell  me  this  before  we  came  out?"  she 
asked,  making  the  ease  of  time. 

"I  didn't  know  I  should  have  the  face  to  be  sayin'  it  at 
all,"  he  admitted — and  she  believed  every  word  of  that. 
He  had  destroyed  none  of  the  trust  she  felt  in  him. 

"  'Twas  ye  talkin'  of  the  lonesomeness  of  death  for  those 
would  be  drowned  in  the  sea,"  he  went  on,  "and  the  little 
soft  sound  ye  had  in  yeer  voice  and  the  kindness  was  in 
yeer  eyes  made  the  feelin'  I  have  about  ye  come  up  in  the 
turn  of  the  words.  I  didn't  bring  ye  out  alone  in  the  boat 
the  way  I  could  be  tellin*  ye  that.  But  'tis  said  now." 

She  looked  away  with  a  softness  of  moisture  in  her  eyes. 

"I  wish  ye  hadn't  said  it,"  she  muttered. 

"Why  so?" 

"  Tis  not  married  I  want  to  be  at  all." 

"Why  not?" 

"Shure,  I  dunno!  'Tis  hard  and  bitter  that  life  would 
be  for  a  woman.  Isn't  it  left  she  is  in  the  course  of  a 
little  piece  with  a  man  and  he  lookin'  at  her  the  way  he'd 
be  lookin'  at  a  dog  has  worn  its  feet  on  the  roads." 

He  appeared  at  the  moment  to  be  unable  to  say  anything 
to  that.  Either  she  would  take  or  refuse  him,  this  was  all 
he  had  thought.  It  had  never  occurred  to  him  a  woman 
could  think  of  marriage  as  a  condition  that  would  alter 
her  life  one  way  or  another,  unless  it  were  with  a  man  she 
disliked,  or  one  who  would  beat  her  and  treat  her  ill. 
There  were  many  who  submitted  without  complaint  even 
to  that. 

Did  she  think  for  a  moment  it  was  that  way  he  would  be 
treating  her  once  he  had  got  her  for  his  own?  So  well 
he  knew  the  tenderness  he  had  for  her  that  in  his  astonish- 
ment at  the  thought,  the  question  had  slipped  into  words 
almost  before  his  wish  to  speak  it. 

"D'ye  think  I'll  treat  ye  badly?"  he  asked  her,  and  it 


THE  MIRACLE  105 

was  with  a  gentleness  of  voice  that  smote  her  as  she  heard 
it.  "D'ye  think  I'm  that  kind  of  a  man  would  raise  his 
hand  to  woman  to  be  beatin'  her?" 

She  could  not  answer  this.  He  was  making  her  way 
harder  than  she  had  thought. 

"Is  it  the  way  ye  think  I'm  like  a  many  of  them,"  he 
went  on,  "would  be  huntin'  under  the  stones  maybe  if 
they  couldn't  get  money  to  be  drinkin'  it?" 

She  could  only  shake  her  head.  She  was  learning  and 
too  fast  for  her  ease  of  mind,  what  Father  Costello  had 
meant  when  he  said  the  fisherman  was  a  true  man.  Why 
then  was  she  still  longing  in  her  heart  to  be  away,  to  hear 
no  more  of  what  he  was  saying?  Another  girl,  such  as 
Julia  Mahon,  would  be  simpering  with  delight  to  hear  a 
man  say  what  he  was  saying  to  her  there.  Yet  every  word 
stung  with  the  pain  of  it. 

He  bent  forward,  leaning  on  the  handles  of  his  oars. 
His  voice  was  muffled  when  he  spoke.  She  might  have 
been  the  painted  figure  of  the  Virgin  on  the  altar  table 
above  him  and  he,  with  too  little  knowledge  of  womenkind, 
stammering  a  prayer  to  reach  her  hearing. 

"I'm  not  that  sort  at  all,"  he  said  in  a  murmur,  almost 
to  himself.  "Isn't  it  a  plain  man  I  am,  but  thare's  great 
kindness  I'd  have  for  one  would  be  destroyin'  the  lone- 
someness  is  on  me.  There  is  indeed."  He  looked  straight 
to  her  then.  "And  'tis  yeerself  could  do  that,  Mary  Kirwan, 
with  yeer  soft  voice  is  not  like  the  women  in  Ardnashiela 
would  be  bringin'  a  great  noise  of  shoutin'  about  the  house." 

She  had  not  accepted  him ;  but  she  had  not  refused.  He 
believed  he  need  say  no  more  than  this  to  convince  her. 
That  a  girl  should  not  want  to  marry  was  little  more  than 
words  to  him.  Men  and  women  married  because  inevitably 
and  invariably  it  happened  so.  With  some  girls  it  was  not 
even  a  question  of  whom  they  chose.  Even  that  seemed 


106  THE  MIRACLE 

natural  and  reasonable  enough  to  him.  They  changed  one 
home  for  another  as  cattle  moved  from  this  farm  to  that. 
It  was  a  matter  of  treaty  and  bargain — of  common  consent. 

Marriage  was  only  a  part  of  life.  He  had  never  had  any 
other  view  of  it.  Living  there  in  Ardnashiela,  as  they 
live  in  all  the  West  of  Ireland,  there  had  never  been  any 
possibility  that  he  should.  What  more  could  he  say  than 
he  had  said? 

Often  enough  when  he  sat  on  the  sea  wall  with  the  other 
men  they  had  teased  him  with  their  laughter  and  their  jests 
because  he  had  no  wife  to  be  fretting  him.  Perhaps  he 
was  different  from  them.  If  the  women  they  had  made  a 
fret  of  their  days,  it  was  all  as  a  part  of  life  they  took  it. 
A  man  could  forget  a  great  deal  when  he  had  a  little  drink 
taken.  If  there  were  words  or  a  fight  even  he  would  be 
having  with  his  wife,  wasn't  there  little  was  left  to  remem- 
ber qf  it  in  the  morning? 

So  they  all  lived  in  Ardnashiela — all  but  he.  Until  he 
had  met  Mary  Kirwan,  he  had  preferred  the  loneliness 
of  his  peat  fire,  the  door  shut  against  the  face  of  night 
and  the  voices  of  his  fellow  men,  with  the  long  silences 
that  fell  upon  his  mind  as  he  smoked  his  pipe  and  waited 
for  the  call  of  sleep. 

He  preferred  it  no  longer  now.  Since  his  lobster  pots 
had  been  taken  from  him  and  he  had  felt  the  tormenting 
presence  of  the  unseen  making  Their  sport  of  him,  he  had 
come  to  fear  those  long  silences,  that  door  shut  close  and 
the  empty  room.  It  was  fear  like  a  child's  fear.  It  was 
loneliness,  like  a  child's.  That  kindness  of  life  was  what 
he  wanted  about  him.  He  never  spoke  to  her  of  love,  or 
thought  she  had  any  need  of  it.  Yet  he  loved  her  even 
then,  as  some  men  do  love  women  for  the  gentleness  they 
can  bring  into  a  hard  life  that  has  little  of  the  tenderness 
of  affection  to  soften  it. 


THE  MIRACLE  107 

"Can't  ye  be  givin'  me  the  word?"  he  asked,  looking  up 
at  her. 

Without  the  quality  of  comparison,  she  thought  of  her 
dog,  the  way  it  lifted  its  eyes  to  her,  as  when  she  had  found 
it  starving  in  the  yard  of  the  farm,  gratitude  already  there 
mingled  with  expectancy. 

"It's  all  so  quick,"  she  said,  afraid  in  every  word  to  hurt 
him.  "How  did  I  know  ye  were  goin'  to  be  talkin'  to  me 
like  this?  It's  too  quick  it  is.  Shure  I'd  want  time  to  be 
thinkin'  of  it  in  me  mind."  She  sped  her  glance  again  to 
the  cliffs.  The  black  speck  was  still  there,  still  motionless, 
but  upon  the  surface  only.  Any  moment  it  might  be  gone. 

"I'll  say  no  more  then,"  said  he.  "Can't  I  wait?  Shure, 
I  can  indeed.  If  the  nights  are  long,  won't  I  be  thinkin' 
always  'tis  yeerself  is  comin'  to  shorten  them  to  the  break 
of  the  day  and  that'll  be  a  grand  thought  for  me  to  be 
havin'  surely." 

It  was  because  she  knew  that  this  was  how  it  would  end 
that  she  cried  out  to  him  to  stop. 

"I  have  not  said  I  would,"  she  told  him,  and  it  was  as 
though  there  were  some  one  else  there  and  she  was  answer- 
ing them.  "Shure,  I've  given  ye  no  word  one  way  or  an- 
other. 'Tis  not  married  I'm  wantin'  to  be  this  time  or  anny. 
Aren't  there  plenty  of  women  would  be  goin'  the  time  of 
their  days  without  a  man  at  all  to  be  naming  them?" 

It  was  this  talk  he  could  not  understand  from  her.  Not 
understanding  it,  perhaps  it  frightened  him  even  more  than 
if  she  had  given  him  her  direct  refusal.  Life  was  as  long 
in  Ardnashiela  as  elsewhere  and  maybe  when  a  year  or 
two  had  gone  by,  he  might  take  her  with  patience.  But 
this  avoidance  of  marriage  itself,  the  very  strangeness  of 
it  to  his  hearing  raised  up  a  barrier  he  had  no  quickness 
of  intelligence  to  circumvent. 

Drawing  a  deep  breath  in  which  there  was  despair  of 


108  THE  MIRACLE 

his  impotence,  he  took  up  his  oars  again.  With  a  mechani- 
cal stroke  that  brought  its  sense  to  Mary  of  an  engine  in- 
capable of  fatigue,  he  began  pulling  the  boat  out  further 
into  the  luminous  mist  of  the  sea.  The  sound  of  the  oars 
in  the  wooden  rowlocks  fell  rhythmically  upon  her  ears 
with  the  fatal  regularity  of  a  ticking  clock.  She  saw  the 
cliffs  receding  from  them,  the  world  her  heart  was  crying 
for  drawing  further  away.  In  a  very  little  while  she  felt 
she  could  bear  the  sound  of  those  relentless  oars  no  longer. 
With  an  impulsive  gesture,  sped  to  distraction,  she  leant 
forward  and  clutched  at  his  hands  that  wielded  them. 

"Don't  go  out  any  more!"  she  whispered  to  him.  She 
was  almost  beyond  subterfuge  with  the  passionate  fear  that 
she  was  a  prisoner  now.  "Don't  go  out  any  more!  Let  ye 
be  puttin'  the  boat  across  to  the  cliffs  over.  I'll  be  walkin'  the 
way  back  to  Ardnashiela.  Shure,  I'd  sooner  be  walkin'  back." 

He  stared  at  her,  a  bewildered  man.  Every  moment  he 
was  understanding  her  less;  every  moment  she  was  escap- 
ing from  him  the  more  with  her  elusiveness;  every  moment 
he  was  fearing  his  first  thought  of  her,  that  it  was  not 
a  man  with  the  nets  and  the  boat  he  had  and  the  money 
was  put  by  in  his  house  who  would  ever  be  calling  her 
his  own. 

"What's  on  ye?"  he  asked  querulously.  With  any  satis- 
faction to  his  reason,  he  could  only  think  it  was  an  illness 
she  felt,  as  many  of  the  girls  did  when  first  they  came 
out  in  the  boats.  Yet  the  sea  was  marble  smooth.  The 
mark  of  his  oars  lay  far  into  the  distance  behind  them 
with  circles  that  widened  in  scintillating  rings  of  light. 

She  simply  stared  at  him  as  though  she  could  give  no 
meaning  for  what  she  had  done.  He  asked  her  again,  when 
she  could  only  repeat: 

"I'd   sooner   be  walkin'   back."     Then,  as   if   this  were 


THE  MIRACLE  109 

a  tangible  reason  that  would  give  him  understanding,  she 
added:  "It  looks  so  far  the  land  'ud  be  out  here." 

"Yirra,  I'll  pull  her  in  so,  nearer  to  the  rocks,"  said  he. 

What  could  she  say?  Her  mind  was  searching  for  an 
excuse,  feverishly  snatching  at  one  thought  to  persuade  him 
and  as  feverishly  putting  it  away. 

The  real  issue  had  singled  itself  out  in  her  now.  She 
knew  it  was  to  see  and  speak  to  the  priest  she  wanted  more 
than  any  desire  to  be  away  from  Fennel  in  the  boat.  Her 
fear  of  not  being  able  to  accomplish  it,  had  risen  higher 
now  than  the  fear  she  had  of  the  thought  itself.  She  was 
not  stopping  to  ask  herself  what  it  meant  in  the  purpose 
of  her  heart.  To  achieve  her  object  and  before  it  was  too 
late,  was  then  the  only  idea  that  dominated  her. 

"But  I  want  to  be  walkin'  back,"  she  reiterated  in  a  pain 
of  distress.  "I  want  to  be  alone  to  think  about  what  ye've 
been  sayin'  to  me.  It  isn't  sittin'  here  with  ye  in  the  boat 
I  could  have  a  thought  of  it  at  all.  Won't  ye  put  me  out 
on  the  rocks,"  she  pleaded,  "the  way  I  can  be  walkin'  with 
meself  only  and  a  long  quiet  I'd  be  havin'  in  me  mind." 

Without  knowing  it,  she  had  tuned  her  voice  to  its 
gentlest  note  with  her  pleading.  It  sped  through  unex- 
pected channels  of  emotion  into  his  heart.  He  felt  it  beat- 
ing with  fear  as  that  night  when  he  had  seen  the  flocking 
birds.  There  was  nothing  he  would  not  have  done  for  her 
— no  sacrifice  he  would  not  have  made.  If  it  was  a  dis- 
appointment and  a  loss  to  him  and  spoilt  the  most  wonder- 
ful hour  he  had  ever  known  in  his  life,  it  was  for  her  and 
in  response  to  her  wishes  he  was  spoiling  it.  He  had  seldom 
talked  to  women  at  any  time.  Never  in  his  life  had  he 
talked  to  one  in  such  closeness  of  mind  as  he  had  to  her. 
It  was  wonderful  enough  to  him  that  he  had  said  so  much. 
She  knew  the  secret  desire  in  him.  When  they  had  set 
out  from  the  boat  cove,  he  had  never  hoped  he  would  reach 


110  THE  MIRACLE 

so  far  with  her  as  that.  If  this  were  indeed  the  end  of  it, 
it  had  been  wonderful  while  it  lasted. 

Without  another  word,  he  put  the  boat  about  and,  with 
a  quicker  stroke,  since  it  was  her  he  was  serving,  he  sped 
them  over  the  blue  water,  through  the  mist  of  light  and 
the  quivering  air  to  the  silent  feet  of  the  rocks. 

Sitting  there  in  the  stern,  a  still  figure  once  again, 
it  was  as  though  she  measured  the  decreasing  distance  with 
her  pulses;  as  though  she  were  coming  with  heart  leaping 
to  an  enchanted  land. 


rv 

HIGH  away  there  on  his  ledge  of  rock,  Father  Cos- 
tello  had  seen  all  that  had  happened.     For  a  long 
while,  having  read  his  Breviary,  he  had  sat  with 
eyes   sometimes   half   closed,   letting  his   mind   drift   with 
dreams  and  visions  in  the  light  and  the  heat  and  the  still 
shimmer  of  the  sea. 

In  a  pilgrimage  of  thought,  he  wandered  back  to  look 
upon  his  first  enthusiasiams  in  Rome.  There  they  were  in 
a  clear  retrospect  like  a  painted  picture.  How  were  they 
now?  Had  the  colour  faded?  Were  the  outlines  less 
keen?  He  gazed  over  the  glassy  stretches  of  the  sea, 
contemplating  his  memories  as  he  might  have  gazed  into 
a  mirror,  recalling  the  look  he  had  when  he  was  young, 
setting  it  beside  the  reflection  he  saw  and  asking  himself 
how  life  had  treated  him. 

They  were  all  there,  those  enthusiasms.  There  was  not  one 
he  missed.  Nevertheless  it  was  not  joy  but  something  of 
fear  and  disappointment  he  felt  in  finding  them.  As  lofty 
they  were  as  ever  they  had  been,  yet  something  there  was 
in  them  seemed  different.  For  a  long  while  he  regarded 
them,  gazing  into  the  years  as  they  had  passed  him  by, 
much  as  a  man,  sitting  in  a  high  window,  watches  the  pas- 
sage of  a  pageant  in  the  street  below.  One  costumed  figure 
after  another  came  and  went,  whose  characters  with  every 
power  of  discrimination,  he  failed  to  reconcile.  This  that 
should  have  been  a  man  for  broils  and  skirmishes  and  all 
the  rough  adventures  of  war,  was  dressed  as  a  scholar,  pale 
of  face  and  hollow-eyed.  Here,  one  that  was  a  knight-at- 

111 


112  THE  MIRACLE 

arms  had  cast  his  vizor  for  a  monk's  cowl  and  there  the 
cardinal  that  had  been  was  become  a  humble  abbot's  clerk. 

At  "last,  in  a  vivid  instant  of  introspection,  he  saw  what 
it  was.  His  enthusiasms  had  become  ideals.  A  greater  haze 
of  beauty  there  was  about  them  than  there  had  ever  been 
before,  but  they  were  more  elusive  to  his  touch.  The 
strenuous  vitality  had  gone  out  of  them.  They  had  become 
spiritualised.  He  felt  he  could  no  longer  walk  with  them 
as  once  he  had  done,  conspicuously  in  the  open  streets  of 
life.  All  were  there,  but  they  dwelt  in  the  inner  sanctuary 
of  his  soul.  He  knew  them  no  longer  as  the  common 
blood,  pulsing  in  a  common  measure  through  every  vein 
in  his  body.  He  could  not  laugh  about  them  now,  as  he' 
had  once,  with  a  free  laughter.  They  were  more  sacred 
and  yet  the  very  silent  sanctuary  in  which  they  sheltered 
now,  seemed  less  secure  than  the  open,  noisy,  light  of  day. 

What  had  happened  that  it  had  become  like  this?  It 
was  beyond  a  human  possibility  he  could  openly  and  fear- 
lessly face  the  answer  to  such  a  question  as  that.  An  un- 
flinching courage  had  been  needed  in  him  to  reach  even  so 
far  in  self-admission  as  this. 

It  was  just  life  had  done  it,  he  told  himself.  He  was 
seven  years  older  since  those  days  in  Rome.  If  it  was 
ideals  they  had  become,  whatever  they  were,  he  thanked 
God  for  them.  Even  Father  Roche  perhaps  had  set  out 
with  such  enthusiasms  as  he.  And  what  had  life  done  to 
him?  It  had  turned  those  enthusiasms  into  mere  dross  of 
habit.  He  felt  he  had  no  need  to  pray  that  such  might 
never  happen  to  him.  He  knew  well  it  could  not.  Without 
these  ideals,  the  mere  thought  of  life  was  abhorrent  to  him. 
That  was  something  to  be  thankful  for;  a  girdle  to  wear, 
a  staff  to  hold  that  would  help  him  over  the  longest  journey. 

He  was  beginning  to  drive  himself  to  courage  because  he 
felt  he  needed  it.  More  than  that,  he  was  finding  it  fast. 


THE  MIRACLE  113 

Ideals  were  better  than  enthusiasms.  There  was  not  one 
of  the  latter  but  what  life  in  the  end  did  not  wear  it  down. 
Enthusiasm  was  like  the  breath  in  the  body  of  a  man  run- 
ning a  race.  In  time  it  was  like  to  give  out.  It  always 
gave  out  before  the  end. 

It  was  not  true  that  the  silent  sanctuary  of  a  man's 
soul  was  insecure  keeping  for  his  ideals.  Where  else  should 
they  abide?  And  how  could  life  touch  them  there? 

And  now  he  was  feeling  a  new  joy  in  his  heart  that 
he  had  faced  this  relentless  enquiring  of  his  reason.  It 
seemed  to  him  he  had  been  like  a  man  upon  his  trial,  con- 
fronting the  pitilessness  of  his  accusers.  With  frailty  and 
insecurity  of  purpose  they  had  charged  him.  Now  he  had 
answered  the  charge.  It  might  be  true  that  he  had  lost  the 
vital  quality  of  his  enthusiasms.  But  what  if  he  had!  In 
place  of  them  he  had  found  the  spiritual  quality  of  his 
ideals  and  locked  them  in  the  safe-keeping  of  his  soul  where 
the  hand  of  life  could  never  touch  them. 

In  the  end  he  had  laughed,  a  short  laugh  of  contempt 
at  his  fears  and  then  in  a  moment  the  silence  everywhere, 
that  had  lent  itself  to  his  thoughts,  was  broken.  The  sea- 
gulls were  still  wheeling  with  sharp  cries  over  the  cliffs; 
there  was  a  long  humming  note  over  the  heather,  but  from 
a  continuous  hearing  this  had  woven  itself  through  his 
mind  to  a  tangible  thread  of  silence.  The  sound  of  oars 
beating  rhythmically  in  the  rowlocks  of  a  boat  had  snapped 
it.  In  an  instant  the  sounds  of  nature  all  came  back  to 
him.  He  heard  the  humming  note  over  the  sea-pinks  and 
the  heather.  He  heard  the  cries  of  the  sweeping  gulls, 
the  faint  lapping  of  the  water  on  the  rocks  below,  but 
thrusting  above  these  came  the  noise  of  oars  to  bring  a 
human  interest  of  life  into  the  solitude. 

In  a  few  moments  the  black  speck  of  the  boat  rounded  the 
sharp  edge  of  the  headland,  with  a  trail  of  glittering  ripples 


114  THE  MIRACLE 

behind  it  like  a  water  spider  on  a  still  pool,  except  that  it 
moved  with  an  almost  imperceptible  gliding. 

Almost  glad  of  the  interruption  at  that  issue  of  his 
thoughts,  he  had  hoped  for  the  moment  it  was  the  men 
come  out  to  their  fishing.  Not  even  the  people  who  had 
lived  in  Ardnashiela  all  their  lives  ever  lost  interest  when 
the  fish  were  in  the  bay.  There  was  an  excitement,  a 
sense  of  adventure  in  the  air  those  days.  It  had  not  been 
long  before  Father  Costello  had  caught  the  fever  of  it 
too.  Boats  were  hurried  out  from  the  boat  cove,  nets  were 
gathered  up  with  hasty  hands  from  the  sea  wall.  Every 
one  about  the  street  and  in  the  houses  could  be  heard  say- 
ing to  each  other:  "The  fish  are  in  the  bay — the  fish  are 
in  the  bay."  They  brought  the  commotion  of  life  with 
them.  All  Ardnashiela  started  up  from  the  peacefulness 
of  its  sleep  and  for  the  rest  of  that  day  there  was  a  coming 
and  going  of  men  and  women,  of  children  running  and 
donkey  butts  rattling  over  the  stones. 

The  moment  the  boat  came  in  sight,  Father  Costello 
knew  there  was  nothing  like  this  to  turn  that  solitude  into 
the  fret  and  flurry  of  life.  It  was  Fennel,  he  thought,  the 
only  industrious  man  amongst  them,  come  out  to  look 
after  his  lobster  pots. 

So  seldom  had  he  seen  women  out  in  the  boats  that  at 
first,  at  that  distance,  he  had  assumed  both  those  figures 
were  men.  It  was  only  when  they  came  across  the  straight 
line  of  his  vision,  that  he  began  to  have  a  doubt  of  it.  There 
was  a  certain  timidity  with  which  she  sat  in  the  stern  of 
the  boat  that  arrested  his  eyes,  watching  them.  No  man 
would  sit  like  that — no  man  bred  to  the  life  of  the  sea.  It 
was  a  woman.  In  itself  that  was  enough  to  prick  his  mind 
to  speculation.  It  was  a  woman  and  already  he  had  thought 
it  was  Fennel  coming  out  there  to  inspect  his  pots. 

His  mind  swept  back  to  the  remembrance  of  that  evening 


THE  MIRACLE  115 

in  the  cow-shed,  the  last  words  of  Fennel  as  he  had  gone 
out,  the  thoughts  that  had  come  to  him  about  the  fisherman 
then. 

It  was  Mary  Kirwan. 

She  had  kept  her  promise.  She  had  taken  his  advice. 
So  uncommon  an  event  was  it  in  Ardnashiela  for  any  girl 
on  a  week-day  to  go  out  with  the  men  in  the  boats,  that 
he  came  without  hesitation  to  the  certainty  of  belief.  If 
on  a  Sunday  they  went  out,  it  was  more  in  the  nature 
of  an  excursion — a  crowd  of  them  singing  sometimes, 
laughing  always  in  high-pitched  voices.  He  had  never  seen 
a  man  alone  with  a  woman  before.  The  very  sight  of  it  had 
all  the  significance  of  a  wooing.  Not  only  was  she  keep- 
ing her  promise  with  Fennel;  she  was  taking  his  advice. 

His  eyes  became  rivetted  upon  them.  There  was  not  a 
movement  that  escaped  him.  When  Fennel  rested  on  his 
oars  and  leant  forward  speaking  to  her  as  she  sat  there  in 
the  stern  of  the  boat,  it  seemed  he  could  hear  the  deep  note 
of  earnestness  in  his  voice.  After  this  discovery,  so  rapt 
had  his  attention  become  that  he  did  not  realise  the  meaning 
of  a  wish,  flinging  itself  through  his  mind,  that  he  might 
have  a  glass  to  be  watching  them  more  closely.  He  specu- 
lated for  a  reason  to  explain  to  himself  why  they  were  drift- 
ing. They  must  be  talking  seriously  then.  Perhaps  in  those 
very  moments,  out  there  in  the  silence  of  the  sea,  Fennel  was 
talking  of  love  to  her. 

What  sort  of  talk  would  it  be  from  a  man  like  that? 
Honest  and  true,  he  imagined  it,  but  with  a  heaviness  that 
would  hang,  weighted  upon  his  words.  Would  it  lift  her 
to  an  exaltation?  Hearing  his  declaration  of  it,  would 
she  rise  to  a  flame  of  passion  as  high  even  as  when  in  so 
many  words  she  had  turned  him  from  the  house  and  in 
a  flame  of  passion,  too,  shaming  the  priest  in  him,  he  had 
left  her? 


116  THE  MIRACLE 

He  watched  her  with  his  eyes,  as  a  hawk  watches,  all 
that  time  while  Fennel  was  resting  on  his  oars.  She  made 
no  movement.  She  did  not  respond.  He  was  quick  to 
realise  there  was  no  sign  of  exaltation  there.  Then  close 
upon  that  realisation  came  an  urging  wish  in  his  heart  that 
there  might  be. 

Once  he  thought  he  saw  her  turn.  He  believed  he  saw 
her  face,  pale,  even  against  the  glint  of  the  sea,  looking 
towards  the  cliffs.  Had  she  seen  him  in  that  moment? 
How  was  it  possible?  At  such  a  distance  he  would  be  lost 
to  her  eyes,  part  of  the  pattern  only  in  the  fretted  patchwork 
of  the  rocks.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  know  the  effect 
to  them  of  the  sun  striking  upon  his  black  cloth.  The  more 
he  gazed  at  them,  the  further  away,  losing  substance  in  the 
mist,  they  appeared  to  be. 

But  there,  surely,  if  ever  he  had  seen  one,  was  a  man  at 
his  wooing.  Presently  would  he  take  her  in  his  arms?  Did 
those  people  make  love  with  open  demonstrations  of  their 
passion?  If  he  did,  was  it  right  that  he  should  be  looking 
at  them?  Could  he  bear  to  look?  Love  was  a  sacred 
thing — but  was  it — a  sacred  thing  to  them  ?  From  the  young 
men  and  women  he  had  often  seen  caressing  each  other 
in  public  places,  he  did  not  imagine  it  could  be.  Yet  he 
felt  that  if  Fennel  were  to  lean  forward  then  and  take  her 
in  his  arms,  he  must  shut  his  eyes  and  turn  away. 

Why  was  that?  There  had  been  no  marriage  service 
since  he  had  come  to  Ardnashiela,  but  he  knew  in  the 
nature  of  those  people  and  the  regard  the  men  had  for 
their  womenfolk,  that  love  and  passion  were  mere  transi- 
tory and  inconsiderable  states  of  mind  with  them.  Why 
should  he  shut  his  eyes?  Some  man,  some  time  or  another, 
would  touch  her  lips  with  his.  Some  time  or  another  a 
man  would  take  her  away  alone  to  himself.  Yet  she  had 
said  she  never  wanted  to  be  married.  What  had  she  meant 


THE  MIRACLE  117 

by  that?  Surely  it  could  not  be  just  the  look  in  a  woman's 
face  that  made  her  so  different  from  her  class. 

Nevertheless,  she  was  different.  At  all  times  there  was 
something  impossible  to  know  about  her.  He  had  felt  it 
himself.  He  confessed  it  freely.  That  interest,  he  was 
ready  to  admit  it  then,  had  drawn  him  often  out  to  Kir- 
wan's  farm.  There  was  a  latent,  tragic  sense  about  her. 
She  would  not  easily  find  a  joy  in  life.  Yet  there  was  not 
one  amongst  all  those  people  in  Ardnashiela  who  seemed 
to  need  that  joy  so  Tnuch  as  she.  Perhaps  she  knew 
that  in  herself.  Perhaps  that  was  why  she  had  said  she 
would  never  marry.  Perhaps,  too,  that  was  why  he  was 
watching  them  so  closely  then,  why  he  wished  that  she 
might  be  lifted  to  a  height  of  exaltation,  why  he  knew  in 
his  heart  that  one  of  the  rough  fibre  of  Fennel,  the  fisher- 
man, could  never  carry  her  there. 

Presently  Fennel  had  taken  up  his  oars  again.  They 
were  going  further  out  to  sea.  On  and  away  into  the  dazz- 
ling mist  of  the  light  they  were  moving.  Soon  they  would 
be  a  blurred  speck  upon  the  water  when  it  would  be  impos- 
sible for  him  to  see  even  the  rhythmic  movement  of  the 
fisherman's  arms,  or  the  bright  splashings  of  the  oars.  A 
wish  cried  out  in  him  that  they  would  come  closer  to  the 
shore.  Had  she  seen  him?  Was  it  from  the  watching  of 
his  eyes  they  were  drawing  away  ? 

As  though  it  were  in  some  telepathic  answer  to  his  ques- 
tion, some  miraculous  response  to  his  wish,  he  saw  Mary 
lean  forward  and  touch  Fennel's  hands  upon  the  oars.  For 
a  moment  he  thought  it  had  come,  the  lifting  of  exaltation, 
the  instant  before,  when,  dropping  his  oars,  he  would  take 
her  in  his  arms.  There  was  an  arid  heat  in  his  eyes.  But  he 
did  not  close  them.  He  had  not  turned  away  as  he  sup- 
posed he  would.  He  was  looking  with  all  the  searching 


118  THE  MIRACLE 

power  of  vision,  as  if  every  sense  he  had  were  leant  to  the 
sole  purpose  in  his  mind. 

But  it  was  not  what  he  thought.  For  a  while  they  ap- 
peared to  be  talking,  then  Fennel  turned  the  boat  and  with 
quicker  strokes  that  shot  a  ripple  of  white  foam  from  the 
bows,  he  was  rowing  in  towards  the  shore. 

This  was  the  wish  answered  that  his  heart  had  cried. 
A  moment  later  he  was  realising  a  new  intent  in  their 
undeviating  direction  and  their  speed.  They  were  coming 
right  into  the  shore.  They  were  going  to  land  on  the  rocks. 

Was  it  that  they  feared  the  sea  too  open  a  place?  He 
began  to  wonder  where  he  could  go.  It  was  impossible  to 
stay  any  longer  where  he  was.  Still  he  waited,  believing 
now  they  could  not  have  seen  him  or  they  would  have 
rowed  beyond  the  next  headland  for  their  landing. 

Down  there  below  him  those  three  hundred  feet,  the 
boat  looked  a  flimsy  thing  for  human  lives  to  trust  them- 
selves in.  It  lay  against  the  mass-of  rocks  where  Fennel  had 
brought  it,  no  bigger  than  a  nut-shell  floating  on  the  water. 

The  fisherman  clung  with  his  hands  to  the  limpet  fringe 
the  low  tide  had  exposed  to  the  sun.  She  stepped  out  onto 
the  rocks.  Her  feet  slipped  on  the  slime  of  sea-weed.  She 
swayed  and  balanced  with  her  arms  till  she  had  climbed 
up  on  to  a  smooth  plateau. 

Then  she  looked  back.  The  priest  heard  their  voices  far 
below  them;  the  softness  of  her  treble,  the  deep  note  of 
his  bass.  He(  could  distinguish  no  words  they  said. 

The  next  moment  he  was  swallowing  in  his  throat  to 
keep  back  the  rising  of  his  heart  with  its  sudden  beating. 
Fennel  was  pushing  off  the  boat.  He  was  leaving  her  there. 
He  was  going  away.  His  wooing  was  over.  With  slower 
strokes  that  seemed  weighted  with  the  aching  of  his  arms, 
he  was  pulling  out  alone  once  more  into  the  glistening  soli- 
tude of  the  sea. 


FATHER  COSTELLO  sat  waiting.  He  did  not 
move  from  his  ledge  of  rock.  In  those  first  days 
of  his  enthusiasm  he  would  have  sought  her  out. 
Now,  with  a  supreme  effort  of  will,  he  held  close.  With 
movements  of  his  eyes  only,  he  watched  her  climb  the  easy 
ascent  there  of  the  cliffs,  or  looked  out  to  see  where  the 
boat  with  its  lonely  occupant  was  slowly  increasing  its 
distance  from  the  shore,  slowly  becoming  faint  and  nebulous 
in  the  reflected  lights  and  trembling  beat  of  the  air. 

He  could  not  suppose  she  had  seen  him  yet.  She  climbed 
without  looking  upwards,  negotiating  each  difficulty  as  it 
came.  The  shawl  about  her  head  was  thrown  back  in  the 
heat  of  the  sun.  Dropping  to  a  loose  cowl  it  hung  between 
her  shoulders.  Exposed  in  that  light,  he  could  see  her  hair 
in  the  fullness  of  its  colour. 

She  was  not  climbing  straightly  in  his  direction,  but  so 
nearly  he  knew  she  must  pass  him  that  their  meeting 
seemed  inevitable.  Did  he  wish  that  it  should  be?  He 
sat  still  with  the  stillness  of  the  rock  beneath  him  as  though 
he  hoped  it  would  not,  as  though  by  some  incomputable 
chance  of  fate  she  might  pass  by,  ignorant  of  his  presence 
there  so  near  to  her. 

Not  in  such  moments  as  those  could  he  determine  what 
it  was  he  feared  in  their  meeting.  As  it  was  with  her 
always,  so  it  had  become  then  with  him.  He  had  no 
thought,  but  sensations  only.  Fear  and  a  wild  joy,  a  pas- 
sionate power  of  restraint  and  then  a  trembling  weakness, 
when  all  desire  to  command  himself  seemed  to  have  become 

119 


120  THE  MIRACLE 

fluid  in  his  will,  these,  in  sensations  he  could  neither  check 
nor  determine,  ran  in  a  succession  through  his  mind. 

Whatever  he  felt  he  still  sat  motionless  and  then  the 
fate  he  somehow  believed  was  in  it  all,  decided  the  issue. 
As  she  came  level  with  him  up  the  jutting  face  of  the  cliffs, 
she  turned  and  looked  across  the  uneven  ledges  of  the  rocks. 
In  an  automatic  response  to  that,  he  acted  at  once. 

"Good  morning,  Mary,"  he  called  out. 

She  called  back  good  morning  in  a  voice  that  was  querul- 
ous, perhaps  because  of  her  want  of  breath  from  climbing. 
Then  she  made  her  way  across  to  him.  He  rose  to  his  feet. 
In  a  few  moments  they  were  standing,  facing  each  other  on 
his  platform  of  rock  with  the  glow  of  the  light  between  them, 
the  sea-gulls  sweeping  and  winding  over  their  heads  and 
far  across  the  water  below  them  that  fading  speck  of  the 
boat  with  its  occupant  bending  in  his  solitude  over  the  oars. 

Father  Costello  summoned  all  the  quietness  in  his  voice. 

"What  made  you  come  to  the  rocks?"  he  asked.  "There 
was  I  sitting  here,  thinking  it  must  be  a  great  wonder  to  you 
out  there  on  the  water  and  no  sooner  had  I  thought  it,  than 
Fennel  turns  the  boat  about  and  comes  pulling  in  to  the 
shore." 

"Did  ye  know  it  was  ourselves?" 

"I  did  indeed!" 

"How  did  ye  know  that?" 

He  gave  her  a  laugh. 

"Well — I  can  see.  I've  got  two  good  eyes  in  my  head, 
Mary." 

"But  shure,  how  could  ye  be  tellin'  a  man  or  a  woman 
at  all  with  that  great  stretch  of  the  sea  was  between  ye?" 

"No — I  can't  say  I  recognized  you  at  first." 

"Yirra,  how  did  ye  know  them?" 

"I  remembered  that  day  when  you  were  milking — that 
day  of  the  storm — that  day  Fennel  came  in  for  shelter. 


THE  MIRACLE  121 

You  made  him  a  promise — didn't  you?  The  first  fine  day, 
you  said,  you  would  come  out  with  him  in  his  boat." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  frankly,  into  his  eyes.  In  a  natu- 
ral consequence  of  thought,  she  turned  her  head  then  and 
looked  across  the  water.  The  boat  was  melting  into  the 
mist.  Though  no  detail  of  it  was  visible,  she  saw  the 
man  plainly  there  alone  at  his  oars.  Still  frankly,  she 
looked  back  at  Father  Costello  as  though  expecting  and 
unafraid  of  his  rebuke. 

"Ye  think  'tis  the  way  I've  been  cruel  to  him,"  she  said, 
"I  gettin'  out  on  the  rocks  and  leavin'  him  there  to  be 
goin'  back  with  himself?" 

Had  he  anticipated  her  answer,  he  would  never  have 
asked  his  question.  It  was  with  his  mind  utterly  unpre- 
pared that  he  enquired  why  she  had  done  it  at  all. 

"I  saw  yeerself  sittin'  here,"  she  replied  with  a  guileless 
honesty,  "I  wanted  to  speak  to  ye.  I  wanted  to  say  the 
shame  I'd  had  for  me  boldness  and  the  bad  manners  I  gave 
ye  that  day  in  the  house." 

She  had  seen  him.  Because  of  that,  she  had  asked  to 
be  put  out  on  the  rocks.  It  was  she  from  a  wish  to  be 
with  him  who  had  ended  that  wooing!  He  tried  to  return 
the  straightness  of  her  look.  The  frankness  of  her  eyes 
frightened  him.  It  was  impossible.  He  turned  his  head 
away  across  the  water  to  the  boat.  She  read  in  his  ges- 
ture more  than  in  his  eyes  that  he  found  her  heartless  in 
what  she  had  done.  With  a  quaint  distress  in  her  voice 
she  begged  to  be  told  if  that  was  what  he  thought. 

Without  looking  round  he  said — 

"Did  you  tell  him  it  was  that  you  wanted?" 

"I  did  not  of  course." 

He  breathed  relief. 

"Then  I  should  think  it  was  hard  on  him,"  he  said. 

"It  was,  I  s'pose." 


122  THE  MIRACLE 

He  faced  her  quickly  with  a  haste  in  his  eyes  that  asked 
her  why  she  supposed  it.  There  was  no  need  of  his 
saying  the  word. 

She  hesitated.  She  did  not  want  to  say.  Yet  to  whom 
could  she  speak  better  of  such  a  thing  than  to  a  priest? 
Even  if  in  her  heart  she  knew  that  her  marriage  with 
Fennel  would  be  the  end  of  it,  he  could  advise  her ;  he  could 
make  her  understand  this  reluctance  in  herself  to  be  wife 
to  any  man. 

"  'Tis  the  way — 'tis  the  way  he  wants  me  to  marry  him," 
she  stammered. 

"Thank  God  for  that,"  he  said  quickly,  and  with  an 
earnestness  she  heard  plainer  in  his  voice  than  he. 

It  was  the  last  thing  she  wanted  to  hear.  It  seemed  to 
make  it  more  inevitable  than  ever.  Then  there  was  no 
escape.  That  was  the  way  of  her  life,  as  she  had  heard  it 
in  Fennel's  words — the  way  of  every  woman  with  no  joy 
to  her  all  the  days  of  time. 

"Shure  I'm  not  after  thankin'  God  meself,"  said  she. 
"  'Tis  not  a  married  woman  I  want  to  be  at  all." 

It  had  been  all  she  could  say  to  Fennel.  It  was  all  she 
could  say  now  to  him.  She  knew  no  more  really  about 
it  herself  than  that.  In  just  those  few  words  her  sensa- 
tions summed  themselves  up  in  her. 

They  had  a  more  distressing  sound  to  him  now  than 
when  he  had  heard  them  before.  In  the  urgent  need  they 
made  in  him,  he  began  pleading  with  her  like  a  man  hasten- 
ing to  clinch  a  bargain. 

"He's  the  best  man  in  Ardnashiela,"  he  said,  as  he  had 
said  before. 

"Shure,  I  know  that." 

"Well,  what  is  it  in  the  name  of  God,"  he  said,  "keeps  you 
from  taking  him  when  he  wants  to  marry  ?  You're  a  foolish 
girl,  Mary  Kirwan — you  don't  know  the  hardness  of  life, 


THE  MIRACLE  123 

or  the  help  there'd  be  for  a  woman  to  have  a  man  standing 
always  by  her  as  he'd  stand  by  you.  Why  don't  you  say 
the  word  to  him?  There's  not  a  man  in  the  whole  of  the 
street  would  bring  you  the  peace  of  life  he  could  be  giving 
you." 

To  her  astonishment  he  suddenly  took  her  arms  as  though 
she  were  a  child  that  could  be  shaken  into  obedience  if  he 
had  the  power  of  will  in  him  to  be  doing  it.  Instead  he 
just  held  them  fiercely  in  the  grip  of  his  fingers. 

"Marry  him,  Mary!"  he  exclaimed.  "Marry  him!  'Tis 
the  whole  heart  he  has  and  he's  giving  it  to  you  and  it's  not 
for  yourself  or  any  good  woman  to  refuse  the  heart  of 
a  man  like  that!" 

She  had  expected  him  to  shake  her,  expected  the  action 
of  it  to  accompany  his  holding  of  her  like  that.  It  was  what 
men  did  in  their  tempers  with  things  weaker  than  them- 
selves. Often  when  she  was  younger,  her  father  had 
shaken  her.  In  the  sound  of  his  voice,  she  had  felt  the 
temper  of  the  priest,  because  of  her  obstinacy  perhaps,  be- 
cause of  her  folly  too.  And  then,  somehow,  when  it  was 
only  his  fingers  that  gripped  and  hurt  upon  her  arms  and 
he  only  held  her  so,  she  sensed,  without  reason,  as  an  animal 
scents  danger,  that  it  was  not  his  anger  so  much  as  his  fear. 
He  was  afraid  of  something.  His  fingers  clutched  with 
fear.  They  clung.  The  strength  in  them  was  not  dominant. 

All  this  she  felt  distantly  in  her  blood  and  her  flesh. 
It  communicated  with  no  reason  to  her  brain.  She  experi- 
enced no  more  than  a  wonder  why  he  said  what  he  did. 
While  he  was  still  holding  her  arms,  she  looked  up  at 
him  with  penetrating  query  in  her  eyes. 

''Why  are  ye  sayin'  all  this?"  she  asked  him  straightly. 
"Don't  ye  rightly  know  I  could  be  goin'  on  meself  in  the 
house,  milkin'  the  cows  and  doin'  the  work  there'd  be  for 
me  on  the  farm  the  way  me  father  would  be  glad  to  be 


124  THE  MIRACLE 

havin'  me  there  and  himself  standin'  by  me  if  'twas  a  man 
I'd  be  needin'  at  all?  Why  are  ye  standin'  there,  grippin' 
me  arms  and  hurtin'  me — "  he  dropped  his  hands  as 
though  she  had  struck  them  down — "and  ye  cryin'  out 
to  me  to  marry  the  man?  Shure  'tis  not  a  lonely  girl  I 
am,  have  no  home  to  be  goin'  to.  Why  would  ye  be  hurtin' 
me  like  that?" 

She  lifted  her  arm  and  bared  it  beyond  the  elbow.  Per- 
haps her  hands  were  rough  with  the  work  she  did.  If 
they  were,  they  made  the  more  conspicuous  the  soft  white- 
ness of  her  arms. 

He  had  seen  many  a  woman's  arms  bared  before  and 
never  known  there  was  beauty  in  them,  never  considered 
that  in  their  nakedness  a  woman  was  expressing  the  charm 
they  had  for  any  one  to  see  who  found  it. 

She  held  it  out  that  he  might  see  the  red  flesh  where 
his  fingers  had  marked  her.  Both  of  them,  they  stared 
at  it.  It  was  she  who  glanced  away  first  and  glanced  at 
him.  Somehow  she  knew  then  it  was  not  at  the  mark 
alone  he  was  looking,  but  at  all  her  arm,  nearly  to  the 
shoulder,  like  a  bar  of  ivory  in  the  sunlight. 

Never  supposing  the  riot  in  his  mind  or  reading  his 
thoughts,  she  acted  swiftly  with  an  almost  automatic  obedi- 
ence to  the  instincts  of  her  sex.  More  suddenly  even  than 
she  had  bared  her  arm,  she  pulled  down  the  sleeve  of  her 
bodice  and  covered  it  again.  It  was  so  sudden  as  to  be 
conspicuous,  so  sudden  as  to  be  a  revelation  to  him.  He 
knew  what  he  had  done.  He  knew  then  too  what  he  had 
felt  and  thought.  What  was  more  fatal,  he  knew  it  had 
not  escaped  from  her. 

He  felt  that  quick  movement  of  hers  to  be  a  reproach. 
It  smote  across  his  conscience,  whipping  him  to  a  double 
shame,  a  shame  of  himself,  a  shame  to  think  he  had  forced 
her  to  modesty. 


THE  MIRACLE  125 

He  could  not  meet  her  eyes  then,  but  when  she  had 
pulled  down  the  sleeve  of  her  dress,  turned  his  head  away 
and  looked  over  the  water  that  in  a  faint  change  of  light 
had  varied  to  the  colour  of  mackerel  scales  with  iridescent 
blues  and  greens  and  shifting  lights  of  pearly  pink. 

He  thought/  as  it  is  common  to  think  of  women,  that 
what  she  had  done  yvas  a  modesty  in  her.  He  did  not  know 
that  her  heart  was  beating  with  a  wild  and  almost  pagan 
joy  as  she  did  it.  He  did  not  know  it  was  an  automatic 
action,  rooted  deep  in  Nature  itself.  He  had  no  experience 
with  which  to  ask  himself  why  a  woman  reveals  her  charm 
until  it  is  seen  and  then  in  an  impulsive  instinct  snatches 
it  away.  Without  such  an  experience  it  was  impossible 
for  him  to  reason  that  there  was  little  of  modesty  in 
it,  but  a  purpose  and  as  strong  as  life  itself.  He  had 
never  tried  to  fathom  the  unconscious  motives  women  lived 
by  when  their  hearts  were  stirred  and,  without  guile  or 
malice,  they  became  obedient  to  the  laws  of  Nature,  seek- 
ing always  to  set  free  the  first  passionate  spate  of  love 
that,  once  loosened,  may  flood  as  it  wishes  and  to  the  ulti- 
mate sea  if  it  will. 

He  did  not  even  know  that  Nature  was  having  its  deter- 
mined way  with  him  when  he  seized  her  arms  and  had 
cried  to  her  to  marry  Fennel,  the  fisherman.  Never  would 
he  have  believed  that  Nature  too,  was  involved  with  her 
when,  in  a  distant  consciousness  that  her  arm  was  not  an 
ugly  thing  to  see,  she  had  bared  it  there  in  the  sunlight 
to  show  him  the  mark  his  fingers  had  left.  Still  less  could 
he  conceive  or  she  be  made  to  realise  that  when,  with  that 
hasty  movement,  she  had  covered  her  arm  again,  she  was 
acting  at  Nature's  bidding  to  stir  a  deeper  fire  in  him/ or 
that  at  Nature's  bidding  her  heart  was  beating,  one  dull 
thud  after  another  in  her  breast. 

There   they   stood,   both   of   them,   ignorant  and   afraid, 


126  THE  MIRACLE 

simple  sport  for  the  rough  purposes  of  life.  The  very 
silence  about  them  was  pregnant  with  what  it  bore.  And 
she  was  more  ignorant  than  he.  Still  he  was  a  priest  to  her. 

Once  she  had  seen  Father  O'Connor,  his  predecessor, 
with  drink  taken.  He  was  leaning  to  steady  himself  against 
a  wall  on  the  Doonvarna  road.  They  were  alone.  She 
had  thought  he  was  ill  and  had  come  hurriedly  to  his  side 
asking  was  there  any  way  at  all  she  could  help  and  was  it 
the  way  he  was  sick.  But  the  drink  he  had  taken  had  gone 
only  to  his  limbs  maybe,  for  his  voice  and  his  senses  had 
been  clear  enough  for  him  to  tell  her  to  go  away  and  mind 
her  own  business.  She  had  known  he  was  drunk  then,  but 
never  in  all  that  time  had  she  admitted  it  to  herself.  It 
was  sick  the  poor  man  was,  she  said  in  her  mind  and 
shielded  him  with  that,  not  only  to  herself,  but  never  spoke 
of  it  to  another  soul. 

It  was  the  same  here  with  her  now.  She  was  ignorant 
and  yet  she  knew.  She  knew  but  would  not  allow  an  in- 
stant's admission  in  her  thoughts.  He  was  a  priest.  He 
had  his  vows  taken.  There  was  nothing  that  any  woman 
could  be  to  him.  The  very  thought  of  it  was  a  sacrilege 
that  made  a  shuddering  in  her.  Yet  there  was  the  look 
she  had  seen  in  his  face  and  here  was  the  knowledge,  so 
deeply  implanted  that  she  could  never  root  it  out  of  her 
mind. 

What  had  happened  to  Father  O'Connor  had  never  con- 
cerned her  more  than  in  its  relation  to  her  sacred  beliefs 
in  the  honour  and  glory  of  the  priesthood.  She  could  for- 
get that.  She  could  put  it  utterly  away.  She  might  think 
she  could  do  the  same  here,  but  it  was  nothing  more  than 
a  hope  and  one  which  a  surging  instinct  threatened  at  every 
turn. 

Still  there  was  a  wish  below  her  thoughts,  a  fierce  wish 
begotten  of  her  preconceived  idealisms  of  the  priesthood, 


THE  MIRACLE  127 

to  shield  him  from  evil,  to  keep  him  exalted  in  her  mind. 
She  could  not  believe,  as  he  stood  there  beside  her,  that  in 
that  moment  he  was  nothing  but  a  man.  She  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  the  familiar  cloth  on  his  shoulders,  the  distinguishing 
collar  about  his  neck  and,  if  not  in  so  many  words,  she  kept 
saying  to  herself  he  was  a  priest. 

But  these  were  fluid  thoughts.  They  came  and  went. 
Riding  upon  them  and  every  moment  with  her  heart  beat- 
ing, she  felt  a  passionate  joy  and  pride  in  herself.  It  was 
the  same  joy,  the  same  pride  she  had  found  that  first  day 
when  Father  Costello  came  out  to  the  farm.  His  laughter 
as  he  went,  saying  he  would  walk  as  though  he  were  going 
to  a  funeral,  that,  mingling  with  her  own  laughter,  had 
struck  the  first  spark  of  it.  Ever  since  then,  in  the  farm 
kitchen  and  most  of  all  that  evening  in  the  hay-field,  it 
had  smouldered  and  burnt  to  a  red  glow  in  the  inflammable 
substance  of  her  heart. 

It  was  a  furnace  now.  The  heat  of  it  suffused  her. 
She  glowed  with  her  pride  that  had  no  vanity  in  it.  It  was 
pride  in  herself  as  a  woman  that  has  stirred  a  man  to 
passionate  response. 

It  seemed  to  her  then  that  she  needed  to  know  no  more. 
This  in  itself  was  a  greater  thing  than  she  had  ever  hoped 
of  life.  She  would  not  realise  there  were  more  lofty  heights 
of  exaltation  than  this.  He  was  a  priest.  As  a  priest  she 
knew  then  she  loved  him,  as  she  would  have  loved  him  had 
he  been  a  man.  If  that  were  a  sin — and  she  supposed  it 
was — she  was  none  the  less  glad  of  it.  If  it  were  a  sin, 
it  was  one  that  could  never  sully  him.  Always  he  would 
have  to  her  the  wonder  both  of  priest  and  man. 

And  now,  having  come  to  this,  the  greatest  realisation 
she  believed  was  in  the  world  for  her,  she  felt  in  a  strange 
surprise  at  herself,  that  if  it  must  be,  she  could  marry 
Fennel,  the  fisherman,  now.  All  that  he  needed  for  his 


128  THE  MIRACLE 

loneliness  she  could  give  him.  The  pity  and  kindness  she 
had  in  her  heart  for  him  bore  no  relation  to  this.  It  could 
not  touch,  it  could  not  approach  the  leaping  furnace  of  her 
pride.  This  was  a  being  within  herself,  left  as  it  were  in 
her  charge  to  keep  unspoiled  and  sacred  all  her  life  through 
for  one  who  could  never  take  it  as  his  own. 

The  sensation  of  the  vision  it  conveyed  to  her  imagina- 
tion almost  pleased  her.  Renunciation  did  not  enter  into  it. 
She  flattered  herself  with  no  false  vanity  in  what  she 
thought.  How  could  she  give  up  what  could  never  possibly 
be  hers?  She  could  marry  Fennel,  happily  even,  knowing 
the  true  man  he  was.  Never  in  all  their  life  together  would 
he  ask  anything  of  her  pride.  If  it  were  only  because  of 
the  way  he  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  boat,  she  knew  it  was 
never  that  he  needed.  This  which  was  her  own  she  could 
keep  always  for  herself  and  when  she  died — she  definitely 
thought  of  this — it  was  Fennel's  wife  they  would  be  burying 
under  the  grass  up  in  the  graveyard  on  the  hill,  whilst  all 
that  was  her  in  her  soul  would  be  a  spirit,  wandering  maybe 
and  never  at  rest,  but  living  always  with  the  pride  of  the 
love  that  was  in  her. 

This  was  the  most  concrete  thought  she  had  and  with  it, 
a  glitter  in  her  eyes,  she  looked  up  at  Father  Costello. 

"I'll  marry  himself,  if  'tis  the  way  I  ought  to,"  said  she. 

He  looked  round  at  her  quickly  and  caught  the  glitter  in 
her  eyes.  Without  knowing  what  it  meant,  he  felt  it  to 
be  the  utmost  edge  of  his  endurance.  The  knowledge  of 
what  he  had  done  had  not  escaped  her.  Yet  that  light  he 
saw  there  was  not  reproach.  If,  as  he  supposed,  there  had 
been  modesty  in  her  responsive  action,  then,  with  that  thril- 
ling glitter  in  her  eyes,  it  only  served  to  torture  and  inflame 
him  the  more.  Only  her  words  saved  him.  With  a  shud- 
dering sense  of  relief,  he  clutched  at  them  to  keep  himself 
from  falling. 


THE  MIRACLE  129 

"There's  no  question  of  duty  in  it,"  he  said,  more  sharply 
than  he  meant,  "it's  your  happiness  I'm  thinking  of.  You 
can't  suppose  I'd  be  urging  you  to  marry  him  except  for 
that." 

Such  belief  she  had  of  the  priest  he  was  and  little  under- 
standing the  true  nature  of  the  man,  she  asked  why  it  hap- 
pened that  he  put  such  a  pass  upon  her  happiness. 

"Shure,  there's  no  woman  in  this  wildness  of  the  land," 
she  said,  "thinks  one  way  or  another  would  there  be  any 
joy  to  her  at  all,  but  the  things  she'd  be  doin'  with  her 
hands  and  the  food  she'd  eat  or  the  sleep  she'd  be  gettin' 
maybe  to  the  last  of  her  days." 

It  was  her  pride  said  it.  She  felt  she  was  not  one  of 
these.  It  was  because  she  believed  he  knew  it  also  that 
she  wanted  to  hear  him  say  it,  just  in  the  words  of  his 
voice.  All  this  was  part  of  her  fatality.  She  scarcely  knew 
the  abyss  upon  which  she  trod.  With  all  the  beauty  that  it 
had,  it  still  was  the  solid  earth  on  which  she  was  walking 
in  the  sunlight  of  her  pride.  To  be  known,  to  have  the 
hidden  joy  in  her  discovered  and  understood,  was  all  she 
needed  assurance  of. 

"And  do  you  think  you're  like  one  of  them?"  he  asked 
her  shortly. 

She  could  smile  at  him  with  her  eyes  and  her  lips  even 
when  she  answered  that.  It  was  a  smile  of  infinite  sadness, 
infinite  in  longing,  and  yet  a  certain  proudness  in  it  with 
her  brave  acceptance  of  life. 

"I  dunno,  am  I,"  she  replied,  "and  I  dunno  why 
shouldn't  I  be.  Ain't  I  just  one  of  those  livin'  on  the  land, 
might  marry  anny  man  and  meself  goin'  with  him  one  day 
and  another  till  I'd  be  as  like  the  rest  as  one  stone'd  be  like 
another  lying  on  the  turn  of  the  strand." 

"You  don't  know  you're  quite  different?" 
"Shure,  how  could  I?" 


130  THE  MIRACLE 

"I'm  telling  you  you  are." 

"And  what  way  would  I  be  different?" 

"Well — perhaps  you  wouldn't  understand  if  I  said  there 
was  a  distance  about  you — something  it  would  never  be 
possible  to  get  near  to  or  understand.  Do  you  know  what 
Fate  is?" 

He  was  speaking  so  quickly  now  that  she  could  scarcely 
follow  him.  All  it  seemed  to  her  was  that  it  had  the  sound 
of  something  intangible  she  too  felt  about  herself ;  but  more 
than  that  was  the  look,  like  an  anger  in  his  eyes,  and  the 
note  of  his  voice  that  was  angry  too.  She  began  to  feel 
afraid  of  him,  afraid  of  what  he  said,  as  though  she  feared 
any  moment  it  was  a  bad  woman  he  might  be  calling  her, 
so  fierce  he  looked. 

"Do  you  know  what  Fate  is?"  he  repeated. 

She  trembled,  as  though  it  were  a  stupid  folly  in  her 
not  to  know  what  he  meant.  She  shook  her  head. 

"Things  happen  in  the  world,"  he  said  to  her.  "They 
happen  without  people  knowing  why  or  being  able  to  pre- 
vent them.  They  seem  as  if  they  were  meant  to  be  from 
the  very  beginning  of  time." 

She  nodded.     She  did  understand  that. 

"Well — that's  Fate.  It  must  be  God  that  makes  them 
happen,  but  when  a  man  cannot  see  the  reason  of  God  in 
it  at  all,  he  calls  it  Fate." 

He  stopped  and  stared  at  her  and  his  eyes  were  frighten- 
ing, yet  the  fear  she  had  was  somehow  exultant.  There 
was  a  sense  that  something,  terrible  in  its  intensity,  was 
about  to  burst  upon  her.  Sensations  were  falling  with 
loud  reverberations  in  her  mind. 

"That's  what  there  is  in  you,"  he  said,  "a  Fate  about 
you,"  and  he  said  it  almost  with  accusation  in  the  note 
of  his  voice.  "That's  what  makes  you  different  from  all 
the  rest  of  them.  That's  why  your  happiness  depends  on 


THE  MIRACLE  131 

your  marrying  Fennel.  He'll  help  you.  Don't  you  under- 
stand that?  He'll  keep  you,  if  any  man  can.  He'll  keep 
you  from  all  the  things  that  can  happen  to  you  in  the  world." 

Every  nerve  in  her  was  trembling  now.  When  with  a 
sudden  movement  he  turned  away  and  passed  by  her  on  the 
ledge  of  rock,  when  he  began  climbing  with  hasty  steps 
to  the  cliff  path  above  them,  she  had  no  power  to  stop  him. 
She  had  no  will  even  to  ask  him  why  he  went.  It  seemed 
right  that  he  should  go.  It  seemed  the  only  thing  possible. 
She  did  not  even  watch  him,  but  sat  down  slowly  where 
they  had  been  standing.  She  felt  she  could  no  longer  sup- 
port the  weight  of  her  body.  Her  limbs  refused  it.  She 
knew  no  more  than  that  if  she  died  there  then  would  be  a 
mercy  of  God  to  bring  death  to  her;  that  she  would  not 
fear  it ;  that  it  would  be  a  happy  freedom. 

She  stared  at  the  sea  and  just  aske,d  herself  from  what 
it  was  she  had  escaped  and  supposed  it  must  be  that  which 
he  had  called  the  Fate  that  was  in  her. 


VI 

WHEN  Fennel  had  left  Mary  on  the  rocks,  he 
pulled  out  some  distance  to  sea  before  he  returned 
to  Ardnashiela.  He  saw  her  meeting  with  the 
priest.  There  was  no  significance  in  that  to  him.  He  was 
glad  of  it.  If  she  was  speaking  to  the  priest  at  all,  it 
was  good  advice  he  would  be  giving  her.  But  he  feared 
that  to  be  unlikely.  The  untraversable  distance  he  felt 
between  himself  and  her  did  not  suggest  a  ready  confidence 
of  speech  with  any  one.  He  just  thought  she  would  say 
nothing. 

Had  he  seen  them  so  long  there  together  on  that  ledge 
of  rock,  he  might  have  thought  differently;  might  have 
believed  she  was  telling  him  everything.  But  he  turned 
the  headland  and  was  out  of  sight  long  before  they  parted. 
Rowing  back  to  Ardnashiela,  his  mind  did  little  more  than 
listen  to  the  sounds  of  his  oars  in  the  rowlocks  and  to  the 
quick  running  of  the  water  along  the  sides  of  the  boat. 

There  was  no  mind  in  him  for  introspection.  He  had  no 
ability  of  thought  to  weigh  a  matter  out.  She  had  neither 
refused  nor  accepted  him.  He  felt  himself  left  like  a 
boat  drifting,  with  no  motive  power,  no  course  or  direction. 

In  such  a  mood  as  this  he  dimly  knew  himself  to  be  a 
prey  to  the  unseen  powers  about  him.  It  was  at  night 
most  often  it  came  upon  him.  Never  in  the  daytime  had 
he  seen  things  on  the  water  or  heard  the  sounds  he  fre- 
quently heard  when  the  darkness  gathered  like  a  crowd, 
whispering  about  the  boat.  This  was  his  loneliness.  It  was 
the  loneliness  common  to  all  those  people,  cut  off  there  from 

132 


THE  MIRACLE  133 

the  world  and  cast  away  in  the  black  solitariness  of  life. 

Some  of  them  on  the  sea-wall  had  observed  his  going  out 
with  Mary  Kirwan.  With  a  measure  of  apprehension,  he 
expected  that.  He  came  into  the  boat  cove  quickly,  timidly, 
hoping  to  escape  the  ordeal  of  their  laughter.  If  at  that 
point,  without  notice,  he  could  have  climbed  the  face  of 
the  cliff  to  the  cliff  road  where  his  cottage  stood,  he  would 
have  done  so  gladly.  The  formation  of  the  rocks  just  there, 
however,  compelled  him  to  pass  the  sea-wall. 

As  he  came  up  the  slope  of  shingle  to  the  street,  a  shout 
of  voices  and  the  hard  sounds  of  laughter  greeted  him.  It 
struck  against  his  face  like  stones  thrown,  as  without  hesita- 
tion and  with  the  same  kind  of  laughter,  they  would  have 
thrown  them  at  a  stray  dog.  He  felt  his  cheeks  in  a  dull 
flame. 

Some  one  called  out  asking  where  he  had  left  her. 

"Was  it  sick  she  was?"  another  one  shouted  to  him. 
"Was  it  sick  she  was,  the  way  ye'd  be  rockin'  the  boat  to 
tease  her?" 

The  woman  who  lived  alone  on  the  Doonvarna  road  cried 
out  to  him  in  a  shrill  voice  that  pierced  above  the  others: 

"  'Tis  long  and  lonesome  the  nights  'ud  be,  Joe  Fennel, 
for  a  man  has  no  wife  to  be  cuddlin'  him." 

Encouraged  and  emboldened  by  laughter  she  went  on 
with  a  free  tongue  to  describe  the  joys  of  marriage.  Her 
coarse  ironies  were  a  delight  to  them.  "Why  wouldn't  she 
know,"  they  said,  "has  been  twice  married  herself  and 
no  sayin'  what's  happened  her  since  she  buried  her  last?" 

He  stood  there  amongst  them  to  face  it  out,  knowing  it 
must  be  met  sooner  or  later.  Wasn't  it  better  they  should 
empty  themselves  of  their  jokes  on  him  alone,  than  in 
Mary's  ears  for  her  to  be  hearing  them?  For  what  would 
she  think  of  marriage  with  himself  or  any  man  to  hear 
that  woman  spitting  out  the  dirt  of  her  words?  More 


134  THE  MIRACLE 

than  ever  wouldn't  she  say  'twas  not  marrying  she  wanted 
to  be  at  all?  If  marriage  was  filth  the  way  that  woman 
made  of  it,  wouldn't  she  be  saying  that? 

With  all  the  signs  of  their  amusement  spending  itself, 
he  turned  away  to  the  cliff  road.  A  stray  jest  or  a  laugh 
followed  him — the  last  stones  rattling  into  silence  at  a 
dog's  heels.  But  he  had  not  given  them  the  satisfaction 
of  running  away.  They  could  not  see  the  dull  anger  in 
his  eyes  then. 

"May  they  die  and  rot  in  hell!"  he  muttered  to  himself 
as  he  walked  down  the  street.  "May  they  die  and  the  dirt 
is  in  them  be  a  heap  on  their  bodies  till  the  last  day!" 

Unsatisfying  to  himself  as  was  this  voice  of  his  hatred, 
it  was  more  articulate  and  fulfilling  than  the  voice  of  his 
love.  He  did  not  know  what  it  was  he  felt  about  Mary 
Kirwan.  A  great  tenderness — but  he  did  not  know  what 
tenderness  was.  A  wish — not  to  boast  of,  but  to  shield 
her  with  his  strength — he  could  appreciate  that.  He  knew 
he  could  suffer  much  for  her,  as  just  then  he  had  suffered 
from  the  voices  of  their  mocking  and  laughter. 

What  else  could  a  man  suffer  for  a  woman  besides? 
Hunger?  There  should  be  no  want  under  his  roof  as  long 
as  he  had  breath  in  his  body  and  hands  to  cast  a  net  with. 
But  what  if  this  ill-fortune  still  followed  him,  if  he  lost 
his  catch  from  the  holes  They  made  with  Their  mischief 
in  his  nets  and  his  lobster  pots  were  still  taken  from  him? 
What  could  he  do  then? 

He  sat  alone  over  the  fire  in  his  cottage  for  the  rest  of 
that  day  till  the  night  came,  feeling,  like  a  blind  man  with 
his  hands  upon  the  walls,  down  the  alleys  of  his  mind. 

He  would  take  her  away  from  that  place  if  the  fishing 
failed  him.  If  need  be  he  would  take  her  across  the  water 
to  the  Western  States.  All  who  came  back  from  there 


THE  MIRACLE  135 

said  there  was  money  falling  in  a  stream  like  water  running 
into  the  hands  of  those  would  be  strong  enough  to 
work  for  it.  He  felt  strong  enough.  That  was  the  clearest 
of  the  sensations  of  his  love  for  Mary  Kirwan.  He  felt 
his  strength  in  his  arms  and  his  hands  and  the  will  of  his 
heart.  It  was  not  at  all  when  he  was  with  her  he  felt  it. 
That  morning  it  had  seemed  to  him  he  was  like  a  child, 
fumbling  with  the  oars.  But  now,  alone  with  himself  by 
the  side  of  his  fire,  he  knew  he  could  be  strong  for  her. 
Taking  up  the  iron  rod  he  had  to  stir  the  ashes  with,  he 
saw  his  hand  and  the  muscles  starting  up  his  arm  from 
the  thick  wrist.  It  was  little  more  than  this  he  knew  in 
actual  thought  of  his  love  for  Mary  Kirwan. 

With  the  orange  glow  of  the  fire,  the  darkness  was  a 
deep  blue  outside  his  little  window.  He  could  see  the  stars 
in  a  glitter  piercing  through  it.  It  was  still  weather.  If  it 
kept  like  that  there  would  be  sprats  soon  coming  into  the 
bay  and  the  mackerel  after  them.  He  had  made  no  money 
for  three  weeks.  Never  had  he  grudged  so  much  taking  a 
shilling  here  and  a  shilling  there  from  the  box  hidden 
beneath  his  bed. 

The  thought  of  it  brought  him  to  his  feet.  He  lit  a  candle 
and  lifted  out  the  box  from  its  hiding  place.  He  had 
never  counted  his  money  before.  Whatever  he  realised 
on  a  successful  haul,  he  put  away,  only  drawing  from  it 
on  such  occasions  as  this,  a  piece  of  silver  at  a  time,  clung 
with  fishes'  scales,  reeking  in  a  stink  of  decay  that  made 
no  offense  in  his  nostrils. 

Quite  unconscious  that  in  what  he  was  doing  he  had 
admitted  a  new  influence  into  his  life,  he  emptied  the  con- 
tents of  the  box  out  on  to  the  table.  There  was  silver  and 
copper  money  and  stray  pieces  of  gold,  all  tarnished  with 
the  salt  of  the  sea.  Here  and  there  a  dried  mackerel 
scale  glittered  in  the  light  of  the  candle.  There  were  a 


136  THE  MIRACLE 

few  pieces  of  paper  money  like  pieces  of  rag,  begrimed  with 
the  dirt  of  handling  fingers.  It  all  lay  in  a  heap  on  the 
table  as  it  might  have  been  a  pile  of  rubbish  on  the  counter 
of  a  marine  store  dealer's  shop. 

He  began  counting  it  piece  by  piece  with  clumsy  fingers 
and  laborious  calculations,  walking  round  the  table  while 
he  added  one  half-crown  to  another  and,  sitting  down  with 
his  head  in  his  hands  when  it  came  to  the  matter  of  a  piece 
of  gold.  He  was  in  vital  earnestness  about  it.  He  wanted 
to  make  no  mistake.  This  was  no  miserliness  he  had  but 
a  practical  consideration  of  the  issue  before  him. 

He  would  ask  for  no  dowry  with  Mary  Kirwan.  It  was 
herself  he  wanted.  If  James  Kirwan  was  a  prosperous 
farmer  he  was  well-known  to  be  a  close-fisted  man.  There 
should  be  no  price  with  her,  laying  him  under  obligation  to 
her  family  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

"  Tis  herself  I'm  wantin',"  he  muttered  sometimes  in  the 
midst  of  his  calculations.  "Twenty-six  pounds — twenty-six 
pounds — 'tis  herself  I'm  wantin' — twenty-six  pounds  two 
and  sixpence —  Shure  'tis  not  money  I'm  wantin'  with  her- 
self at  all  but — twenty-six  pounds  two  and  ninepence — not 
money  or  any  damned  thing  at  all  but  herself  only — twenty- 
six  pounds  three — twenty-six  pounds  three."  So  he  added 
and  reckoned  and  wrestled  with  the  matter  in  his  thoughts, 
walking  about  in  the  faint  candle  light,  his  shadow  moving 
with  him  like  a  giant  up  and  down  the  walls.  Or  he  would 
sit  a  moment  by  the  fire,  but  always  he  was  shifting  the 
greasy  coins  from  one  side  of  the  table  to  the  other  as  he 
counted  them  out. 

So  engrossed  was  he,  and  so  loud  the  words  he  said  in 
his  breath  were  sounding  in  his  mind,  that  a  knock  on  his 
door  never  reached  his  ears. 

"Twenty-six  pounds  three  and  eightpence,"  he  murmured. 
"Twenty-six  pounds  three  and  eightpence — "and  then  with 


THE  MIRACLE  137 

the  noise  of  the  latch  and  the  cold  air  of  the  night  suddenly 
about  him,  he  looked  up  to  find  Father  Costello  standing  in 
the  doorway. 

Fennel  stared  at  him  in  a  mute  confusion.  He  was  too 
concerned  at  being  discovered  in  his  occupation  to  observe 
the  distress  in  the  priest's  face,  the  hollow  appearance  in  his 
cheeks,  as  though  hunger  had  been  at  them.  His  mind  was 
capable  of  one  thought  only  at  a  time.  With  a  childlike  in- 
tuition, he  supposed  the  priest  would  understand  at  once  the 
reason  for  what  he  was  doing. 

"Good  evening,  Father,"  he  said  and  smiled  awkwardly 
and  was  just  about  to  sweep  all  the  money  off  the  table  into 
the  box  again. 

Father  Costello  shut  the  door  and  came  forward  quickly 
catching  his  arm. 

"What  are  you  stopping  for?"  he  said.  "You  haven't 
counted  it  all.  Go  on — count  it  all,  man.  Shure,  I'll  help 
you  meself." 

"Twenty-six  pounds  three  and  eightpence,"  said  Fennel. 

"Twenty-six  pounds  three  and  eightpence,"  the  priest  re- 
peated and  began  separating  the  copper  from  the  silver, 
the  gold  and  the  bank  notes.  In  a  few  minutes  it  was  all 
counted,  an  evil-smelling  lump  of  money  on  the  table. 
Father  Costello  smelt  his  hands  and  looked  with  a  wry  smile 
at  the  fisherman. 

"Forty-nine  pounds  thirteen  and  fivepence,"  he  said. 

Fennel's  mouth  was  open.  He  was  bewildered  at  the 
speed  with  which  it  had  all  been  reckoned.  It  was  great 
learning  he  must  have  to  count  money  like  that.  He  was 
more  impressed  by  it  than  any  sermon  he  had  ever  heard 
Father  Costello  preach  from  the  pulpit. 

"Faith,  I  dunno  how  did  ye  do  it  at  all  with  that  quick- 
ness," he  said. 

Father  Costello  walked  over  to  the  fire  and  sat  down. 


138  THE  MIRACLE 

He  was  staring  into  the  heart  of  the  peat  glow  as  he  said— 
"And  that's  all  for  herself— isn't  it !" 

Not  knowing  what  to  say  to  that,  Fennel  swept  all  the 
money  off  the  table  back  into  the  box  and  put  it  away  again 
under  the  bed.  Presently  he  came  back  to  the  fire  and  sat 
down  in  silence  opposite  the  priest.  In  silence  he  turned  the 
bellows  wheel  for  a  few  revolutions.  The  fire  breathed  a 
splutter  of  sparks  and  then  broke  into  flame. 

Still,  he  waited,  saying  nothing.  The  priest,  he  calcu- 
lated, had  some  reason  to  be  coming  there  to  his  cottage  at 
that  hour  of  the  night.  Presumably  he  would  say  sooner  or 
later  what  it  was.  He  waited;  looking  now  at  his  nets 
hanging  over  the  rafters  below  the  thatch;  now  looking  at 
the  fire  and  then  at  the  priest  himself. 

An  intangible  sense  that  something  was  the  matter  began 
to  stir  in  him.  He  began  to  feel  it  was  concerned  with 
Mary  herself.  She  had  spoken  to  Father  Costello  about 
it  that  morning.  That  must  be  what  it  was.  She  had  asked 
him  to  come  and  speak  for  her,  to  tell  him  it  was  no  good  his 
hoping,  that,  as  he  had  always  felt  it  to  be,  she  was  not  for 
the  likes  of  him. 

It  was  not  in  him  to  feel  great  depths  of  emotion,  but  in 
that  moment  all  vitality  of  hope  had  gone  out  of  his  spirit. 
He  looked  about  him  in  a  childish  bewilderment.  He  could 
not  realise  it  was  possible.  Believing  this  to  be  the  meaning 
of  the  priest's  visit  and  that  here  was  the  end  of  it  for  him, 
he  understood  then  to  what  an  extent  he  had  allowed  his 
imagination  to  dwell  upon  the  thought  of  her. 

With  the  dogged  persistence  of  hope,  he  had  brought  her 
there  with  him  to  live  under  the  thatch  of  his  roof  ever 
since  that  day  they  had  met  at  the  farm.  They  had  sat  by 
the  fire  together  not  talking,  but  with  him  just  g)ad  of  the 
sight  of  her  there.  They  had  sat  there  together  in  the  room 
eating  their  food.  It  was  her  presence,  the  spirit  of  her 


THE  MIRACLE  139 

and  her  kindness  he  had  brought  back  rather  than  her  body. 
If  the  physical  joys  of  her  company  had  entered  into  his 
imagination,  he  would  have  known  it  sooner.  He  would 
have  thought  of  her  in  that  time  as  actually  there  with  him 
in  the  flesh.  He  had  not  done  that.  It  was  only  now  when 
he  knew  he  was  going  to  lose  her  that  he  realised  she  had 
been  there  with  him  at  all. 

In  'almost  petulant  revolt  at  the  suspense  of  that  silence 
between  them,  he  turned  to  the  priest. 

"Say  what  it  is  ye're  come  for,"  he  said,  short  of  voice, 
wishing  to  hear  it  quickly  and  know  the  worst.  "Shure, 
I  saw  ye  talkin'  on  the  cliffs  the  time  I'd  be  rowin'  away 
from  the  rocks.  She  won't  have  me  is  it?  'Tis  the  way 
I'm  not  the  sort  for  the  whimsy  likes  of  her." 

'  'Tis  not  whimsy  at  all  she  is,"  said  Father  Costello, 
and  would  have  said  more  and  could  have  talked  of  her  till 
dawn  broke,  but  checked  his  tongue. 

"Why  won't  she  have  me  then?" 

Father  Costello  raised  his  eyes  that  were  hunted  with 
thought  and  weary  with  the  effort  to  escape. 

"I  never  said  she  wouldn't,"  he  replied  and  with  the  sight 
of  bewildered  incredulity  in  the  fisherman's  eyes  he  roused 
himself  to  the  will  of  his  purpose.  "She  will  have  you,"  he 
went  on  and  eagerly  now.  "She'll  have  you  now  if  you  ask 
her  again.  That's  what  I  came  up  here  to  tell  you.  Don't 
waste  a  day.  Go  out  to  the  farm  to-morrow — ask  her  and 
ask  himself  and  settle  it  up  between  you.  You  needn't 
think  she's  whimsy.  She'll  make  a  good  wife  to  you." 

Fennel  tried  to  speak.  His  emotion  was  like  too  much 
breath,  stifling  him  in  his  throat.  He  saw  nothing  in  all  the 
priest  was  saying  except  as  it  affected  himself.  The  eyes 
sharply  bright  in  a  fever  that  watched  him,  the  lips,  hag- 
gard almost  and  thin  with  desperate  determination,  the 
whole  expression  of  the  priest  racked  with  the  suffering  of 


140  THE  MIRACLE 

those  few  hours  since  the  morning,  brought  not  the  faintest 
realisation  to  his  mind.  He  just  took  the  sense  of  the  words 
as  he  heard  them. 

"What's  all  the  quickness  for?"  he  asked  thickly.  Never 
would  his  nature  have  driven  him  as  swiftly  as  this  if  he 
had  been  left  to  himself.  "Is  there  another  man  is  after 
her  ?"  His  eyes  sought  Father  Costello's  as  keenly  as  when 
he  would  be  watching  from  the  high  point  of  the  head- 
lands for  the  sight  of  fish  coming  into  the  bay. 

Without  fear — with  a  challenge  even — Father  Costello 
met  his  look. 

"There  might  be,"  he  said  slowly.  "D'you  think  a  girl 
like  that  is  going  to  pass  the  thought  of  every  man  but 
yeerself?  Take  her  now,  Joe  Fennel,  'tis  I'm  telling  you. 
Don't  be  waiting  or  wasting  your  time.  She's  not  like  any 
girl  about  these  parts.  Shure,  how  would  you  know  what 
would  be  in  her  mind?" 

Fennel  just  understood  that  somewhere  there  was  a  dan- 
ger lurking.  With  no  conviction  of  belief,  he  accepted 
Father  Costello's  assurance  she  would  take  him  then  if  he 
asked  her.  He  understood  no  more  than  this.  He  never 
knew  the  danger  lay  so  near  to  him.  There  was  not  even 
the  suspiciousness  of  curiosity  in  him  to  seek  it  out. 

She  would  marry  him  if  he  asked  her — however  soon. 
This  was  all  he  could  think.  But  now  that  his  vision  of  her 
had  become  tinged  with  reality,  his  mind  moved  more  con- 
fusedly in  a  dream  than  ever. 

The  priest  watched  him,  swaying  a  little  with  the  pon- 
derous weight  of  his  thoughts  as  he  sat  over  the  fire. 

This  was  the  man  Mary  Kirwan  was  to  meet  and  mingle 
her  life  with.  He  knew  for  the  first  time  then  what  it  was 
she  feared  in  marriage.  Looking  at  the  fisherman  now  that 
the  fever  was  exhausted  in  his  eyes  with  the  fulfillment  of 
his  purpose,  he  could  see  what  it  was  that  was  lacking  to 


THE  MIRACLE  141 

give  her  life.  More  than  this,  he  knew  he  had  it  in  himself. 
She  knew  it  too.  They  had  learnt  it  both  that  morning  by 
the  sea.  How  far  she  realised  it  he  did  not  dare  allow  him- 
self to  think.  Perhaps  not  at  all.  She  had  agreed  upon  his 
advice  to  marry  the  fisherman.  That  was  enough.  He 
would  think  no  more  than  that. 

"You'll  go  out  to  Kirwan's  then  to-morrow/'  he  said 
presently. 

Fennel  looked  up.  There  was  a  dull  wonder  in  the  look 
of  his  face.  It  was  the  end  of  his  loneliness.  There  would 
be  a  kindness  in  life  about  him  now.  Without  knowing 
how  near  to  the  truth  it  was,  he  felt  as  if  it  were  the  priest 
who  had  brought  Mary  to  him  and  in  a  simple  impulse  of 
gratitude  he  suddenly  thrust  out  his  hand.  Father  Costello 
took  it  with  a  ready  response.  As  he  gripped  it,  he  felt 
the  coarse  knots  of  the  knuckle  bones  and  the  rough  grain 
of  the  skin.  In  a  torrent  of  physical  sensation  the  thought 
of  her  arm,  bared  to  the  shoulder,  came  back  to  him.  How 
well  he  knew  then  what  she  meant  when  she  had  no  wish 
to  be  wed! 

With  an  effort  he  held  the  fisherman's  hand.  He  smiled 
even,  as  a  man  smiles,  proudly  giving  assurance  he  is  not 
suffering  more  pain  than  he  can  bear.  This  was  his  bolt 
shot.  The  smoke  from  the  fire,  the  heat  of  the  room,  his 
emotions,  all  were  suffocating  him.  Had  he  been  hemmed 
in  a  crowd  he  could  not  have  felt  more  the  need  for  air  to 
be  breathing  it  clean  into  his  lungs.  His  sensations  were 
a  riot  with  panic  and  stress,  yet  he  behaved  outwardly  like 
a  man  in  an  unconsidered  calm  of  mind. 

There  was  a  deliberate  slowness  with  which  he  dropped 
Fennel's  hand  and  rose  to  his  feet.  It  seemed  to  himself 
that  if  for  an  instant  he  submitted  to  the  urging  impulse  to 
get  away  it  would  be  beyond  his  power  to  control  what  he 
did  or  said. 


142  THE  MIRACLE 

Only  when  the  latch  was  lifted,  the  door  open  and  shut 
behind  him,  when  the  black  night  was  there  for  him  to  hide 
in  and  the  salt  air  a  blessed  chill  on  his  face,  did  he  set  free 
the  stifled  moan  from  his  lips  his  breath  was  holding. 

It  was  not  back  to  the  village  he  turned,  but  along  the 
path  of  the  cliffs,  rolling  like  a  man  to  the  driving  of  a 
whip  across  his  shoulders  till  he  reached  the  ledge  of  the 
rock  where  they  had  stood  together  that  morning.  His 
spirit  found  no  quiet  till  then,  till  pain  had  numbed  it. 


VII 

REVELATION  had  come  to  Mary  Kirwan. 
When,  after  an  hour  alone  on  that  ledge  of  rock 
in  the  surrounding  silence  of  the  sea,  she  had  raised 
herself  out  of  a  dream  and  turned  her  face  towards  Ard- 
nashiela  again,  she  was  no  longer  the  girl  that  Fate  had 
marked  out  for  its  purpose.    In  that  hour  she  had  become 
a  woman,  virgin  still,  yet  with  her  destiny  begun. 

She  knew  now  that  marriage  was  no  mere  happening.  It 
was  not  a  crude  and  scheduled  event  in- life  as  it  was  in 
the  barn  yard. 

In  little  other  manner  than  this  and  with  no  morbidity 
of  thought,  she  had  always  regarded  it.  In  such  a  manner 
as  this  it  seemed  so  to  be  regarded  by  others  living  in  that 
custom  of  life  in  Ardnashiela.  If  that  morning  she  had 
had  a  glimpse  of  it  otherwise  in  Fennel,  it  was  because,  by 
then,  the  revelation  had  partly  been  brought  her  by  another. 

Now  it  was  wholly  brought. 

The  look  in  Father  Costello's  eyes  as  they  had  dwelt 
upon  her  bared  arm,  the  sound  of  anger  in  his  voice  and  all 
he  had  said  when  he  had  spoken  to  her  afterwards,  the 
fear  as  well  that  she  had  heard  in  him,  these  were  the  out- 
ward and  visible  signs  that  had  shown  her  this  new  revela- 
tion of  life.  What  other  than  these  definite  things  had 
wrought  the  change  in  her,  she  could  neither  knew  nor 
understand. 

There  was  more  beside — a  whole  world  more  beside — 
but  her  mind  could  not  reach  it. 

Her  perceptions  simplified  themselves  into  one  thought. 

143 


144  THE  MIRACLE 

Marriage — the  impulse  that  brought  together  the  lives  of 
men  and  women — was  not  what  she  had  supposed  it  to  be. 
Had  she  known  the  word — fusion — she  might  have  used  it 
there.  But  there  was  no  wish  or  attempt  in  her  to  define 
her  thoughts.  Life — as  it  does  with  so  many — was  educat- 
ing her  with  sensations,  not  with  ideas. 

Over  that  mile  of  headland  path,  back  to  Ardnashiela, 
winding  tortuously  to  the  bidding  of  the  contour  of  the 
cliffs,  she  thought  of  her  mother  and  father,  of  their  mar- 
riage and  the  life  together  they  had  led.  She  saw  her 
mother  then  as  she  had  never  seen  her  before.  Behind  that 
remoteness  and  solitary  detachment  from  life,  Mary  seemed, 
with  no  clear  penetration,  to  discern  the  shadow  of  her  own 
life  with  Fennel,  the  fisherman. 

But  had  her  mother  known  what  she  knew  now,  had  she 
seen  what  she  had  seen,  felt,  thrilled,  and  responded  to, 
what  she  was  feeling  in  every  pulsing  passage  of  her  blood, 
would  her  life  have  been  so  empty — so  inert? 

She  had  said  she  would  marry  Fennel.  She  had  meant 
it.  Even  then  she  meant  it,  conscious  of  the  dragging  of 
her  steps  home  to  the  farm.  There  was  no  meaning  to  the 
word — lover — in  the  whole  breath  of  her  experience.  She 
had  never  conceived  of  such  a  relationship.  Women  as  she 
knew  of  them,  married  or  they  went  alone  through  life. 

If  Father  Costello  had  not  been  a  priest,  then  for  some 
reason — not  reckoned  in  her  understanding — that  morning 
had  shown  her  they  belonged  to  each  other.  There  was  a 
sense  of  possession  between  her  and  him,  between  him  and 
her.  But  being  a  priest  of  the  Church,  sanctified  not 
merely  because  his  vows  had  been  taken,  she  put  him  utterly 
beyond  her.  If  there  was  a  fear  at  all  in  the  possession  she 
knew  he  had  of  her,  it  revealed  itself  in  the  constant  hope 
in  her  heart  that  they  would  not  meet  again  till  she  was 
Fennel's  wife.  She  had  felt  the  possibility  of  being  that  as 


THE  MIRACLE  145 

they  stood  together  on  the  rocks.  She  had  promised  it. 
She  did  not  realise  it  was  because  of  her  own  fear  that  she 
felt  the  pressing  need  of  it  now. 

They  were  seated  round  the  deal  table  at  the  midday  meal 
when  she  entered  the  kitchen  and  closed  the  door  behind 
her.  As  she  crossed  to  her  chair,  she  found  that  perception 
had  been  quickened  in  her  to  almost  painful  acuteness.  They 
knew  where  she  had  been.  From  the  sharp  looks  in  her 
father's  eyes  as  he  filled  his  mouth  with  a  weighty  forkfull 
she  could  nearly  have  thought  he  knew  the  fluttering  that  was 
a  torment  in  her  breast.  There  seemed  no  less  a  new  mean- 
ing in  the  downcast  eyes  of  her  mother  and  the  silence  that 
was  like  a  veil  about  her  face. 

"Where  have  ye  been  in  the  name  o'  God?"  he  asked  her 
before  there  was  room  in  his  mouth  for  words. 

But  she  knew  he  had  heard.  Some  one  come  out  to  the 
farm  had  brought  the  gossip  of  the  news.  She  told  him 
plainly  it  was  a  fool  he  was  asking  when  he  knew  right  well 
where  she  had  been. 

"Is  it  with  Fennel,  the  fisherman,  in  his  boat  ye've  been !" 

He  would  have  her  admit  it  and  was  pacified  for  a  moment 
with  satisfaction  when  she  did.  Another  large  mouthful 
of  food  gave  him  occupation,  but  did  not  distract  the  thoughts 
he  had  had  ever  since  he  had  heard  of  it.  He  knew  they 
thought  him  prosperous  in  Ardnashiela.  He  had  always  ex- 
pected this  to  happen  some  day  or  another.  They  would  be 
coming  after  his  girl  in  the  house  to  get  his  money.  But  if 
they  did  they  should  bring  full  return  with  them. 

Ever  since  Mary  had  come  of  an  age  so  that  he  could  see 
by  her  breast  under  the  fold  of  the  bodice  that  there  were 
signs  of  the  woman  about  her,  he  had  thought  in  resentful- 
ness  of  this  moment.  He  never  liked  being  compelled  to  sell 
a  beast  from  his  farm,  as  a  shortness  in  the  crop  of  hay 
sometimes  made  him.  His  success  as  a  farmer  lay  in  the 


146  THE  MIRACLE 

fact  that  he  fatted  well  and  knew  the  moment  when  to  dis- 
pose of  what  he  had.  His  bargainings  with  Shaughnessy 
the  butcher  were  often  lengthy  and  vituperative.  At  other 
times  they  were  amicable  enough  because  they  knew  they 
served  each  other.  But  on  these  occasions  the  sound  of 
their  voices,  emerging  from  Shaughnessy 's  cottage  where 
in  that  one  room  he  lived  and  slept  and  slaughtered  and  hung 
his  sheep,  could  be  heard  all  down  the  street. 

For  some  years  he  had  thought  of  the  possibility  of 
Mary's  marriage  with  such  calculations  as  these.  The  man 
who  came  for  her  would  want  a  dowry  to  be  taking  her. 
Well — he  could  want.  There  was  all  and  more  than  its 
value  he  must  bring  along  with  him  when  he  came.  It 
would  be  for  her  welfare  that  he  should.  But  this  was  not 
the  thought  that  ruled  him.  He  wanted  his  bargain  square 
and  if  any  proportion  was  wanting  in  it,  he  intended  it 
should  be  in  his  favour. 

There  was  a  persistent  hope  in  him  she  would  never  marry 
at  all.  He  knew  her  worth.  It  was  calculated  in  his  mind 
to  a  farthing  and  there  was  a  secret  joy  he  kept  in  his 
heart  that  there  was  no  man  in  that  place  had  substance 
enough  to  ask  for  her. 

For  this  reason  he  had  never  allowed  her  to  go  outside 
Ardnashiela.  On  one  or  two  occasions  when  the  opportun- 
ity had  arisen  for  her  to  go  to  Doonvarna,  he  had  whipped 
himself  into  the  frenzy  of  his  temper  when  Mrs.  Kirwan 
for  the  sake  of  peace  had  advised  her  to  give  up  all  thought 
of  it. 

And  now  apparently  there  was  a  man  at  last  had  seen  the 
woman  she  was  and  set  his  eyes  on  her.  He  laughed  when 
he  heard  who  it  was.  Nevertheless  he  knew  well  that  the 
Parish  Priest  and  Father  Costello  would  be  against  him  and 
that  if  the  fisherman  persisted  he  must  lose  a  hand  on  his 
farm  that  would  have  to  be  replaced  to  the  detriment  of  his 


THE  MIRACLE  147 

pocket.  It  was  quickly  enough  he  came  from  laughter  then 
to  the  sullen  anger  of  resentment. 

"What  in  the  name  of  hell,"  he  asked,  spluttering  his 
food  and  returning  to  the  full  measure  of  his  wrath  at  the 
pressure  of  events,  "what  in  the  name  of  hell  d'ye  want 
goin'  out  in  a  boat  with  a  man  like  that !  Is  it  the  bad  name 
ye  want  to  be  gettin'  for  yeerself — or  what  is  it  ye  want? 
Aren't  they  nasty  fellas,  those  would  be  gettin'  fish  out  of 
the  sea?  Isn't  it  drinkin'  always  they  are  and  shure  God 
knows  what  dirty  women  they'd  be  goin'  with  in  the  little 
streets  the  time  they'd  be  sellin'  a  catch  in  Doonvarna." 

Mary  ate  her  food  without  answering.  It  was  like  the 
dust  and  the  shavings  of  wood  in  her  mouth.  His  resent- 
ment pricked  itself  to  anger  at  her  silence. 

'  "Pis  plenty  of  words  ye  have  at  most  times,"  he  said  in 
the  rise  of  his  voice.  "Why  can't  ye  be  speakin'  now  ?  Was 
it  sayin'  sly  things  he  was  to  ye  and  ye  away  there  out  of 
hearin'  in  the  boat?  Was  it  touchin'  ye  he  was  and  soft 
with  his  eyes?  Begor,  I'd  split  the  head  of  any  man  with 
the  clout  I'd  lay  on  him  would  come  sayin'  nasty  little 
words  to  the  girrl  in  my  house !" 

Mary  thrust  her  food  away. 

"  'Twas  sayin'  nothin',"  she  flung  at  him,  "but  words 
anny  man  might  be  sayin'  in  a  decent  way  to  a  girl  he 
wanted  to  be  havin'  for  his  wife." 

"Ah—!" 

With  a  clatter,  James  Kirwan  laid  down  his  knife  and 
fork.  It  had  come  then.  It  was  a  new  girl  he  would  have 
to  be  getting  to  milk  the  cows  and  make  the  butter  in  the 
house,  and  be  feeding  the  beasts  in  the  yard.  And  it  was 
Fennel,  the  fisherman,  who  wanted  her  and  had  money  they 
all  said,  put  by  in  his  cottage  up  there  on  the  cliff  road.  He 
could  conceive  no  other  reason  for  this  turn  of  events  than 
the  dowry  which  Fennel  must  be  hoping  to  get  with  her. 


148  THE  MIRACLE 

His  small  eyes  sharpened  to  shrewd  calculations  as  he  esti- 
mated what  amount  he  could  possibly  have  saved  up  there 
out  of  his  fishing. 

Mrs.  Kirwan  got  up  from  the  table.  With  no  comment 
on  the  matter,  she  took  her  seat  in  the  open  chimney  and 
picked  up  a  handful  of  her  rushes  from  the  floor.  The 
blind  man  had  come  in  from  his  food  outside  and  seated 
himself  opposite  to  her.  In  a  silence  and  a  stillness  they 
sat,  hearing  the  voice  of  Mary  and  her  father  as  though  it 
were  an  entertainment  of  strolling  players  they  were  listen- 
ing to.  The  look  of  a  stubborn  but  distant  attention  set- 
tled upon  their  faces.  They  might  have  been  understand- 
ing far  more  of  the  play  than  the  players  understood  them- 
selves. They  might  have  been  understanding  so  much  less. 
From  no  expression  that  passed  across  their  lips  or  eyes 
could  it  be  seen  if  they  detected  the  mercenary  impulses  in 
the  farmer's  mind  or  the  surge  of  passion  beating  behind 
Mary's  words.  Like  spectators  they  sat,  rigid,  remote  and 
imperturbable,  facing  each  other  in  their  corners  of  the 
fire;  yet  like  spectators,  inseparable  from  the  play  itself. 

The  wavering  of  the  flames  flushed  and  faded  on  their 
faces.  The  peat  smoke  rose,  a  waving  scarf  of  blue,  be- 
tween them  up  the  chimney.  From  all  that  was  happening 
they  were  inseparable,  yet  they  took  no  part,  or  looked,  but 
listened  only  and  waited  for  the  end. 

That  clatter  of  Kirwan's  knife  and  fork,  the  exclama- 
tion of  his  voice,  and  the  storm  of  his  anger  that  it  prom- 
ised, brought  the  foreboding  of  a  moment's  lull  into  the 
silence.  Then  he  shattered  it. 

"An'  why  is  it  he  wants  to  have  ye  for  his  wife?"  he 
shouted  in  the  high  temper  of  his  voice.  "Shure  'tis  no 
more'n  the  flighty  bit  of  a  girrl  ye  are,  could  not  be  mindin* 
the  house  of  anny  man,  or  cookin'  food  would  be  fit  for  him 
to  eat!  Isn't  it  the  bit  of  money  he  wants  to  be  gettin' 


THE  MIRACLE  149 

with  ye,  makes  the  soft  words  he'd  be  sayin'?  Ah  shure, 
'tis  a  little  fool  ye  are  to  be  listenin'  to  them  tales  of  those 
thievin'  fellas  on  the  sea.  Doesn't  the  world  know  'tis  easy 
they  are  with  their  fine  talk  and  their  coaxy  ways?  Begor, 
'tis  not  the  sight  of  a  silver  or  a  copper  piece  at  all  he'll  be 
gettin'  out  of  meself,  the  time  he  comes  out  here  with  the 
soft  sickness  of  love  he'd  be  havin'  in  his  voice  to  be  askin' 
for  ye." 

It  seemed  almost  when  first  he  began  that  she  cared  little 
for  anything  he  might  say.  But  the  new  pride  that  was  in 
her  was  stung  to  retaliation  now.  She  stood  and  faced  him 
sitting  there,  wiping  his  mouth  and  the  food  from  his 
moustache  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

'  'Tis  none  of  veer  filthy  money  a  man  like  himself  'ud 
be  wantin'!"  she  cried  at  him.  "Shure,  isn't  it  money  he 
has  himself  and  what  would  he  be  wantin',  takin'  it  from 
ye  to  sour  his  food  with?  'Tis  meself  he's  askin'  for  and 
'tis  meself '11  give  him  the  answer  when  he  comes  for  it. 
And  there's  Father  Costello  and  maybe  the  Parish  Priest 
himself  will  be  standin'  up  bi  the  side  of  me  when  I'd  be 
givin'  it.  For  there's  a  man,  surely,  will  not  work  me 
hands  to  the  bare  bones  the  way  ye'd  be  doin'  in  this  place." 

"  'Tis  damned  good  food  ye  have,"  he  retorted. 

"It  is,"  said  she,  "if  I  could  ever  forget  it." 

"And  a  springy  bed,  with  a  good  mattrass  I  bought  in 
Doonvarna." 

"Wisha,  God  help  us !"  she  cried  to  a  pitch  of  laughter— 
"Haven't  ye  worn  the  springs  of  that  bed  long  ago  with  the 
talk  ye'd  be  puttin'  on  it."  Suddenly  her  tone  altered  to  a 
note  intense  with  tragic  determination.  "I  wouldn't  stay 
under  this  roof,"  she  told  him,  "not  if  ye  gave  me  all  the 
beds  to  be  lyin'  in  from  Doonvarna  to  Dublin  itself.  Isn't 
it  the  bad  kind  of  man  ye've  been  always  to  meself  ?"  She 
came  up  close  to  him  till  he  was  frightened  of  her  and 


150  THE  MIRACLE 

moved  away.  "That  evening  ye  killed  me  little  dog,"  she 
said,  "with  the  miserable  fear  was  on  ye,  didn't  I  know 
well  'twas  not  in  yeer  heart  to  be  doin'  the  right  thing  by 
me?  Shure  I  don't  care  is  it  a  sin  or  not,  I  hate  ye — d'ye 
hear  me  now? — I  hate  ye  and  there'll  be  hate  in  me  always 
with  the  last  breath  I'll  take." 

In  the  weight  of  silence  that  fell  about  them  as  her  words 
ceased,  Mrs.  Kirwan  laid  down  at  her  side  the  bag  she  had 
finished  with  a  movement  almost  of  satisfaction  as  of  one 
in  whom  something  has  been  accomplished.  With  no  glance 
in  their  direction,  she  picked  up  the  rushes  from  her  lap  to 
begin  the  next. 


VIII 

FENNEL  came  out  from  Ardnashiela  to  the  farm  the 
next  day.  He  walked  the  mile  of  strand  as  a  child 
walks— distantly  musing.  It  was  not  in  him  to 
think  what  he  should  say.  Just  his  first  spoken  words  to 
James  Kirwan  perhaps  he  knew.  He  could  voice  them  as 
they  would  be  said  by  him  and  did  voice  them — "I'm  wantin' 
yeer  daughter  Mary,  to  be  making  her  me  wife — "  till  his 
mind  was  tired  of  hearing  them.  It  was  because  he  could 
not  construct  in  his  imagination  what  the  farmer  would  say 
then  that  he  grew  tired  of  repeating  it  and  walked  by  the 
sea's  edge  in  a  mist  of  thought.  A  gull  flying,  a  piece  of 
sea-weed  at  his  feet,  were  enough  to  distract  his  mind,  but 
for  no  more  than  a  moment.  The  next  he  would  be  lost 
again  in  shadowy  speculations,  or  saying  aloud,  almost 
without  hearing  himself, 

"I'm  wantin'  yeer  daughter  Mary  to  be  maldn'  her  me 
wife." 

Mary  herself  was  there  when,  with  the  proclaiming  music 
of  the  rusty  gate,  he  came  into  the  yard.  She  was  feeding 
the  chickens,  a  mongrel  brood  of  them.  Whites  and  yel- 
lows, reds  and  browns,  that  came  with  flighting  runs  from 
all  directions  to  the  note  of  her  call. 

He  stopped  before  he  opened  the  gate,  listening  to  the 
sound  of  her  voice  as  she  cried  to  them.  The  only  musical 
instruments  he  had  ever  heard  in  his  life  were  the  har- 
monium in  the  church  and  the  fiddle  that  was  played  at  the 
dancing  in  Creasy's  house  or  at  the  cross  roads  where  the 
way  from  Ardnashiela  forks  here  through  the  hills  of  Doon 

151 


152  THE  MIRACLE 

and  there  to  Killanardrish.  Listening  to  the  note  she  called 
her  chickens  with,  he  might  have  said  he  had  heard  yet  an- 
other, sweeter  to  him  than  all.  But  he  knew  the  sensation 
only.  It  was  not  a  thought  he  had. 

When  he  opened  the  gate  and  it  cried  the  shrill  note  on 
its  hinges,  she  looked  up.  She  wore  no  shawl.  The  sun 
was  in  her  hair.  The  long  oval  of  her  face  was  unbroken. 
There  was  no  closing  shadow  to  hide  the  pity  he  had  found 
for  kindness  in  her  eyes.  And  she  was  to  be  with  him  all 
their  lives  together. 

He  moved  towards  her,  wondering  more  than  he  had  ever 
wondered,  how  it  could  be  true.  She  went  on  throwing  the 
scattering  grain  from  the  tin  basin  she  carried  in  the  curve 
of  her  arm,  until  he  was  beside  her.  He  was  more  drawn 
by  a  fear  to  her  then  than  he  had  ever  felt  or  known  he  had 
been  drawn  to  her  before.  It  was  not  a  fear  that  frustrated 
him.  It  impelled  him  blindly  on. 

"I  never  thanked  ye  as  I  ought  for  the  row  in  the  boat," 
said  she.  It  was  easier  for  her  to  break  their  silence  than 
for  him.  Such  native  intelligence  as  she  had  was  far  quicker 
than  his.  "Shure,  God  help  us,  'tis  come!"  her  heart  was 
crying  out  within  her,  and  these  were  words  that  had  to  be 
silenced  and  it  was  words  only  she  could  find  to  hide  her 
heart  with  then. 

He  muttered  it  was  not  thanks  he  had  wanted.  There 
was  only  one  gratitude  he  knew  of  from  her. 

"I've  come  up  to  see  himself,"  he  told  her  abruptly. 

It  had  come  on  her!  It  had  come  on  her!  With  what 
she  had  said  the  day  before  at  their  mid-day  meal,  there 
was  no  escape  for  her  now. 

She  heard  herself  asking  him  what  for  it  was  he  wanted 
to  see  her  father.  He  did  not  know  from  where  in  him  the 
setness  of  his  intent  had  come  when  he  said, 

"To  speak  to  him  about  yeerself." 


THE  MIRACLE  153 

She  looked  swiftly  at  him  as  a  bird  looks  for  an  open 
space  when  suddenly  it  finds  itself  imprisoned  in  a  room. 

"I  never  gave  me  word  to  ye,"  said  she. 

"But  didn't  ye  give  it  all  the  same?" 

"What  way  d'ye  mean  at  all  did  I  give  it?" 

"Didn't  ye  give  it  to  Father  Costello?" 

There  was  no  thought  or  wish  in  him  to  be  driving  her. 
He  said  simply  what  it  was  he  had  heard.  If  she  had  said 
that  to  the  priest  and  with  what  the  priest  had  said  to  him, 
must  there  not  indeed  be  the  whole  of  truth  in  it? 

How  could  he  ever  know  that  now  in  her  heart  she  was 
like  the  bird  in  the  room  that  has  found  no  opening  of  es- 
cape, but  is  beating  its  wings  in  a  frenzy  against  the  win- 
dow pane. 

She  could  see  the  world  outside,  beyond  the  resisting  sub- 
stance of  Fate  against  which  her  thoughts  were  bruising 
themselves.  But  the  sight  of  it  was  going  from  her.  She 
knew  she  was  beating  against  the  transparent  walls  of  her 
prison  in  vain.  There  was  no  escape.  She  was  caught. 
Human  hands  would  soon  be  holding  her.  Father  Costello 
had  told  him  what  she  had  said. 

With  an  unerring  rush  of  her  instinct,  she  knew  why. 
He  was  afraid  as  she  was  afraid.  He  had  gone  then  that 
same  day  to  tell  Fennel  what  she  had  said.  Not  an  hour 
had  he  let  slip  by.  She  had  not  known  till  then  how  much 
afraid  he  was.  She  felt  her  own  fear  increase  with  his. 
But  more  terrible  than  the  fear  she  had  was  her  joy,  rising 
like  a  high  wind  and  striking  a  penetrating  note  through 
every  fibre  of  her  being.  As  her  heart  tuned  to  the  sound 
of  it,  she  wanted  to  hear  more.  Every  word  he  told  her  had 
its  bitterness,  but  for  the  joy  she  felt,  she  could  suffer  it 
then. 

"When  was  it  he  told  ye  that?"  she  asked  him. 

"Last  night." 


154  THE  MIRACLE 

"Where  did  ye  see  him  then?" 

"He  came  up  to  me  cottage  on  the  road." 

"Did  he  say  why  was  it  he  told  ye  at  all  ?" 

"He  did." 

"Why  was  it?" 

"Well — 'twas  not  sayin'  it  he  was." 

She  looked  at  him,  frowning— confused. 

"  'Twas  the  way  I  made  out  from  what  he  said.  'Twas 
another  man  there  was  and  he  wantin'  ye.  'D'ye  think/ 
said  he,  'a  girrl  like  that/  said  he,  'is  goin'  to  pass  the 
thought  of  every  man  but  yeerself?'  'Tis  those  were  the 
very  words  he  said  and  didn't  I  know  bi  that  there  was 
another  man  he  was  meanin'?" 

She  had  no  sense  of  what  it  was  that  lifted  her,  but  a 
sudden  pride  and  daring  held  her  straight  as  she  looked  at 
him. 

"Did  ye  ask  himself  who  it  was?"  she  said. 

"I  did  not,"  said  he. 

"An*  is  it  the  way  ye're  not  goin'  to  be  askin'  me?" 

"Shure,  I  am  not.  What  differ  does  it  make  to  me  what 
man  it  would  be  set  his  eyes  on  ye,  if  a  be  'tis  ready  ye  are 
to  be  givin'  me  the  word  yeerself." 

"Well — if  ye  don't  want  to  know,"  she  suddenly  volun- 
teered, "I'll  tell  ye  all  the  same,  for  there's  no  man  has 
asked  me." 

And  she  said  this,  not  because  her  daring  was  gone,  but 
because  an  unbidden  need  to  protect  the  priest  had  urged 
itself  upon  her.  In  that  very  admission  of  the  truth  which 
wore  her  lie  upon  the  breast  of  it,  she  almost  felt  she  was 
holding  him  closer  to  her  than  any  other  man  would  come 
in  her  life. 

And  then,  because  she  could  not  leave  it  alone,  she  asked 
him  was  there  more  the  priest  had  said  to  him  that  night 
and  he  told  her  what  more  there  was. 


THE  MIRACLE  155 

'  'Ye'll  go  out  to  Kirwan's  then  to-morrow,'  shure,  those 
were  the  last  words  he  said  to  me,"  he  concluded. 

In  a  swift  conversion  of  mind,  her  daring  left  her.  It 
was  now  she  felt  the  human  hands  in  the  final  surrender  of 
her  life.  This  it  seemed,  in  a  poignant  but  confused  sensa- 
tion, was  the  last  glimpse  she  would  have  of  the  world  out- 
side. It  was  a  distant  sight.  It  was  obscure — just  the 
repetition  of  a  few  words,  bringing  an  added  light  perhaps 
about  her  revelation,  but  not  repeated  by  the  voice  that  had 
said  them.  It  was  like  some  one  sending  a  message  of  fare- 
well, the  actual  words  that  were  used,  but  in  the  voice  of 
another,  sounding  unutterably  far  away. 

With  a  sharp  gesture,  she  tossed  her  head  away  from  him 
to  hide  the  sudden  rise  of  tears.  Fennel  stood  waiting, 
confused  with  the  riddle  she  was  to  him,  and  too  timid  to 
ask  for  explanation  of  that  gesture.  He  did  not  even  sus- 
pect if  it  was  tears  she  was  hiding.  Something,  he  thought  at 
first,  had  suddenly  attracted  her  attention.  His  eyes  had 
followed  the  swift  turn  of  her  head.  There  was  nothing  that 
he  could  see  to  distract  her  and  then,  when  still  she  kept  her 
head  averted  and  with  the  faint  droop  there  was  about  it, 
his  heart  moved  to  a  blindness  of  understanding  and  com- 
passion. 

"I  won't  go  and  see  himself,"  he  said  with  a  real  gentle- 
ness. "If  'tis  the  way  ye've  changed  yeer  mind  from  the 
words  ye  said  yesterday  to  the  Father,  shure  I'll  be  goin' 
back  now  to  Ardnashiela.  Yirra,  'twas  never  the  fair  hold 
of  a  hope  I  had  at  all  to  be  gettin'  ye.  Isn't  there  somethin' 
is  strange  and  sweet  about  ye  would  be  above  the  likes  of 
me?" 

It  was  the  first  thing  with  a  compelling  note  of  tender- 
ness in  it  he  had  said  to  her.  But  beside  this  there  was  the 
response  of  memory  of  what  the  priest  had  said  that  brought 


156  THE  MIRACLE 

her  round  with  the  tears  still  gathering  their  weight  in  her 
eyes  and  coursing  down  her  cheeks. 

"What  d'ye  mean  is  strange?"  she  asked  quickly  and 
gently  too,  because  of  that  first  tenderness  he  had  shown 
her.  "Shure  what  is  there  is  strange  about  me?" 

"Faith— I  dunno." 

"Is  it  strange  in  me  mind  I  am?" 

"It  is  not." 

"Is  it  the  way  I'd  be  lookin'  strange  then?  Wisha, 
Glory  be,  isn't  it  many  girrls  the  like  of  meself  there  are  and 
they  passin'  along  the  roads  without  anny  would  be  givin' 
them  a  turn  of  the  head !" 

"  Tis  not  lookin'  strange  in  yeer  face  ye  are,"  said  he. 

"Is  it  a  fate  then  I  have  in  me?"  she  asked  him,  knowing 
no  more  what  that  meant  than  when  Father  Costello 
had  told  her  of  it  on  the  rocks.  At  a  hazard  she  offered  it 
to  Fennel  with  a  touch  of  the  mimicry  that  was  in  her  and 
the  half  of  a  hope  beside  that  it  might  reach  his  under- 
standing. 

But  he  just  stood  shaking  his  head  and  looking  at  her 
whom  now  in  a  tenderness  he  was  ready  to  lose  if  it  was 
only  the  pain  in  her  mind  he  was  bringing  her. 

'  'Tis  strange  and  sweet  ye  are,"  he  reiterated.  It  was 
all  he  knew.  It  was  all  he  could  say. 

She  looked  at  him  queerly  to  think  he  could  treat  her  so 
well.  There  was  not  another  man  she  knew  in  all  that 
place  would  treat  her  with  so  much  gentleness  and  she  found 
her  heart  aching  for  him  beside  the  aching  it  had  for  her- 
self. 

"Would  ye  go  back  to  Ardnashiela  if  I  asked  ye?"  she 
said. 

"I  would  so." 

"The  way  ye'd  be  givin'  back  the  word  I  gave  to  the 
priest?" 


THE  MIRACLE  157 

"I  would  indeed." 

Knowing  so  little  of  life  as  she  did,  she  felt  this  was  the 
supreme  moment  in  her  own.  Nothing  was  to  be  made  easy 
for  her  but  in  the  bitter  need  there  was  to  set  up  some 
barrier  between  herself  and  the  priest.  After  what  she 
had  heard  from  Fennel  it  was  more  plain  to  her  now  than  it 
had  ever  been,  yet  the  less  obscure  it  became  the  more  a 
deafening  impulse  to  know  the  utmost,  even  if  it  brought 
damnation,  resounded  through  every  sense. 

Her  breath  was  coming  quickly.  Her  heart  was  pound- 
ing its  vibrations  through  her  breast.  In  her  mind  she  did 
not  know  which  she  would  choose  and  listened,  amazed,  to 
some  automatic  function  in  her  voice  as  she  said, 

"Ye'll  find  himself  out  in  the  fields  if  ye  want  to  be  goin' 
to  him  now." 

Fennel  stared  and  drew  his  breath. 

"That's  yeerself  then  givin'  me  the  word?" 

"It  is." 

She  turned  to  the  house  and  went  in  through  a  slant  of 
sunlight  that  was  falling  across  the  darkness  in  the  door- 
way. 


IX 

IT  was  drawing  close  to  evening.  There  were  warm  lights 
gathering.  The  shadows  of  the  solitary  thorn  trees  were 
beginning  to  slope  across  the  land.  Fennel  found  the 
farmer  in  the  barley  field.  He  was  waiting  with  his  gun  for 
pigeons  that  roved  over  the  corn  in  marauding  flocks  for 
plunder. 

When  Kirwan  saw  the  fisherman  coming  down  the  head- 
land of  the  field,  he  spat  out  the  brown  juice  of  his  half 
chewed  tobacco  on  the  ground.  It  was  an  instinctive  ac- 
tion, expressing  annoyance  with  him,  just  as  when  a  cat 
spits,  or  a  dog  bristles  the  hair  down  its  back.  He  did  not 
know  he  had  done  it. 

There  was  no  doubting  what  the  fisherman  had  come  for ; 
but  beside  the  trouble  of  that,  there  was  the  vexation  of  be- 
ing deprived  of  his  shooting.  It  was  difficult  enough  with 
all  his  cunning  to  trick  them  to  a  sense  of  security.  There 
would  be  no  pigeons  coming  there  that  evening  with  two 
men  in  the  field. 

He  cursed  the  fisherman  with  an  oath  under  his  breath 
and  released  the  hammers  of  his  gun.  As  Fennel  came  up 
he  told  him  with  no  tone  of  grace  he  had  spoilt  his  shooting 
for  him  that  evening. 

There  was  no  treatment  that  suited  the  fisherman  better 
than  this.  A  storm  at  sea  and  an  angry  man  were  about 
the  only  two  things  that  eased  him  of  his  timidity.  The 
pigeons  that  ate  James  Kirwan's  barley  were  of  little  ac- 
count to  him  then.  He  knew  he  was  there  to  ask  no  fa- 
vours. He  had  Father  Costello  with  him  and  even  the 

158 


THE  MIRACLE  159 

Parish  Priest  would  be  all  for  upholding  marriage,  between 
a  man  and  a  girl  who  had  given  her  word. 

"I've  come  to  ask  for  yeer  daughter,  Mary,  James  Kir- 
wan,"  he  said,  and  he  made  no  doubt  in  his  voice  that  this 
was  a  mere  formality. 

The  farmer  became  obsequious  at  once.  He  knew  no 
other  method  of  treating  a  man  who  spoke  like  that.  Yet 
with  all  his  fawning,  he  kept  the  suppleness  of  his  cunning 
ready  to  serve  him  when  it  came  to  the  question  of  her 
dowry. 

"I  wouldn't  be  surprised  at  anny  man  comin*  to  me  for 
that,"  said  he.  "  'Tis  a  fine  girrl  she  is  and  quick  and  steady 
with  her  hands.  Shure,  God  knows  what  I'll  be  doin'  in  this 
place  the  time  some  man'll  be  takin'  her  away." 

Fennel  informed  him  the  time  was  come  now  and  that 
it  was  himself  was  there  to  be  taking  her  the  first  day  she'd 
come  with  him  and  the  priest  was  ready  to  say  the  word 
over  them. 

James  Kirwan  had  a  sniggle  of  laughter  for  this.  It  was 
easy  to  talk  in  this  grand  way,  but  there  were  things  to  be 
settled  between  them  and  with  a  man  of  the  law  too,  maybe, 
in  Doonvarna,  before  he  could  be  rushing  off  with  her  to 
the  priest. 

"There's  no  dowry  ye'll  be  gettin'  out  of  her  with  the 
quickness  of  that  sort  of  talk,"  said  he.  "Let  ye  be  tellin' 
me  what  it  is  ye  have  saved  up  there,  the  way  I  can  see  it 
put  out  in  gold  and  silver  pieces.  Shure,  'tis  then  I  might 
be  thinkin'  out  what  I  could  spare  with  her.  Isn't  it  good 
money  is  goin'  out  of  me  pocket  the  day  she'll  be  turnin' 
from  this  place  and  amn't  I  driven  hard  enough  as  it  is 
with  the  bad  crops  I'd  be  havin'  and  the  crool  time  for  the 
farmers  over  the  land  is  comin'  to  me?  Yirra,  there's  little 
at  all  I  can  spare  with  herself.  Isn't  there  money  I'd  be 


160  THE  MIRACLE 

paying  out  to  the  new  hand  I'd  have  to  be  gettin'  in  and 
wouldn't  that  be  loss  enough  itself  agin  me?" 

Fennel  was  listening  so  quietly  that  Kirwan  pressed  on 
with  his  words.  He  felt  he  was  putting  a  sore  case  of 
hardship  and  putting  it  well  and  that  it  was  not  impossible 
he  might  persuade  the  fisherman  to  accept  a  merely  nominal 
sum  with  Mary  when  he  took  her. 

"  Tis  a  man  like  yeerself ,"  he  said  with  the  oiled  voice 
of  flattery,  "will  be  findin*  it  in  ye  to  do  the  right  thing  be 
me  with  the  sickness  and  want  ye'd  have  in  yeer  heart  for 
the  girrl." 

Fennel  looked  at  him  as  he  would  have  looked  at  a  dog 
fish  in  his  nets. 

"I  want  no  money  with  her  at  all,"  he  said.  "Haven't  I 
plenty  enough  of  me  own?" 

James  Kirwan  had  never  received  such  a  surprise  in  his 
life.  He  did  not  know  there  were  men  like  this  in  Ardna- 
shiela  or  elsewhere  in  the  world  at  all.  The  magnanimous 
generosity  of  it  astounded  him,  yet  it  stirred  no  sense  of 
gratitude.  He  was  not  carried  to  any  answering  impulse  of 
bounty.  He  did  not  even  offer  the  niggardly  proposal  of 
that  purely  nominal  sum  he  had  been  fondling  in  his  hopes. 
In  the  true  conception  of  his  nature,  Fennel  was  a  fool  and 
having  no  respect  in  him  for  the  folly  of  pride,  he  always 
took  such  advantage  of  it  as  he  could.  Yet  it  was  nowhere 
within  his  policy  to  let  any  man  see  what  a  fool  he  thought 
him.  That  sort  of  folly  did  not  thrive  in  exposed  places. 
He  sheltered  it  with  the  artificial  heat  of  his  approval  and, 
changing  the  hold  of  his  gun  with  an  impulsive  gesture,  he 
offered  the  grip  of  his  hand. 

"Begor,"  said  he,  "didn't  I  know  the  first  time  I  put  me 
eyes  on  ye,  'twas  an  honest  man  ye  were  ?" 

Fennel  took  his  hand. 
'  'Tis  not — every  man,"  Kirwan  continued  in  a  voluble 


THE  MIRACLE  161 

enthusiasm,  "would  say  the  like  of  what  ye've  pledged 
yeer  word  to  now.  There  is  not.  Aren't  they  mean  as  bog- 
water  in  this  place  and  there's  not  a  man  in  it  like  yeer  self 
has  a  shilling  piece  saved  at  the  back  of  him,  the  time  he 
could  be  standin'  up  with  a  pride  in  him  like  that." 

To  the  fisherman  this  was  all  superfluous  tackle.  He  had 
no  want  to  be  hearing  the  praise  of  James  Kirwan  or  any 
man.  There  was  a  singleness  of  heart  about  him  which  no 
flattery  could  beguile.  He  took  the  hand  that  was  offered, 
but  felt  this  was  all  that  was  demanded  of  him.  There  was 
no  appetite  in  him  to  be  hearing  he  was  an  honest  man. 
What  he  wanted  to  know  he  asked. 

"Is  it  the  way  ye're  givin'  yeer  word  for  her  then?"  he 
said,  and  the  slight  tremor  of  emotion  there  was  in  his  voice 
sounded — like  a  bell  tinkling  in  a  far  distance — in  the  far- 
mer's ears.  With  a  speedy  cunning,  he  judged  its  signifi- 
cance. Not  such  a  mere  matter  of  formality  was  it  to  the 
fisherman  after  all  as  had  seemed  in  the  first  temper  of  his 
speaking.  He  was  not  so  sure  of  his  bargain  as  all  that. 

James  Kirwan  had  no  idea  in  his  nature  of  what  love 
might  be;  but  he  knew  men  hungered  and  thirsted  after 
women.  And  here  surely  was  one  thirsting  now.  In  such 
a  fever  they  were  quick  to  make  concessions,  eager  to  give 
their  souls  away  for  the  sake  of  their  bodies.  He  had  seen 
men  like  that  over  women.  They  were  much  as  men  who 
had  drink  taken;  their  senses  were  besotted  with  lust. 

If  Kirwan  had  any  failing  or  weakness  at  all,  it  was  for 
his  card  playing.  He  had  never  been  drunk  in  his  life,  or 
in  his  life  had  he  ever  lusted  after  a  woman.  It  gave  him 
the  shrewd  powers  of  calculation  to  make  use  of  it  in  an- 
other when  it  came  his  way. 

Still  gripping  Fennel's  hand,  his  eyes  narrowed  as  he 
heard  that  tremor  in  his  voice. 

"Shure,  I'll  give  me  word — I  will  of  course,"  said  he, 


162  THE  MIRACLE 

"but  what  in  the  name  of  God  am  I  to  be  doin'  in  the  house 
with  herself  gone  and  no  hand  to  be  milkin'  the  cows,  of 
makin'  the  butter  or  feedin'  the  chickens  at  all?  Yirra, 
isn't  it  hard  on  a  man,  the  years  he'd  be  givin'  a  roof  to 
the  daughter  of  his  house  and  good  food  to  be  eatin'  and  a 
soft  bed  for  her  sleep,  the  way  she'd  be  taken  on  him  and 
he  left  complainin'  with  the  work  on  his  hands.  Shure  the 
mattrass  she  hev  herself,  didn't  I  buy  it  for  thirty  shillins 
in  Doonvarna?  And  what  will  the  good  of  that  money  be 
to  me  now  with  none  to  be  sleepin'  on  it  and  meself  called 
in  from  the  fields  to  be  milkin'  the  cows?" 

Surely  enough  Fennel  knew  that  he  wanted  something 
in  return  for  his  word  over  them.  There  was  scarcely  any- 
thing he  was  not  ready  to  give,  but  searched  blindly  in  his 
mind  to  know  what  it  could  be.  For  the  gift  of  her  was 
so  near  to  him  now,  that  all  his  timidity  had  come  back  with 
the  close  consciousness  of  it. 

"Shure  what  can  I  do?"  said  he.  "There's  many  a  man 
has  the  same  would  be  happenin'  to  him." 

"Scarce  wan  there  is,"  replied  Kirwan,  "would  be  losin' 
as  good  a  girrl  as  meself.  Would  ye  let  her  come  and  make 
the  butter  for  me,"  he  said  suddenly,  as  though  he  had  that 
moment  thought  of  it  and  it  provided  a  way  out  of  all  his 
difficulties.  "And  maybe  just  the  two  days  in  the  week 
she'd  be  doin'  that,  'tis  milkin'  the  cows  she  might  be  or 
doin'  anny  little  odd  thing  at  all." 

To  one  in  Fennel's  exaltation  of  joy  it  seemed  a  little 
thing  to  be  giving  his  word  for.  So  far  as  he  could  speak 
for  himself,  he  said  he  would  not  mind  if  she  came  down 
sometimes  to  the  farm  and  gave  the  help  of  her  hands.  He 
made  no  promise  as  to  what  she  would  say  to  it  herself. 

Kirwan  agreed  he  could  say  nothing  fairer  than  that.  It 
was  the  man  he  was  inclined  to  be  doubtful  about  in  this 
matter.  With  Fennel's  promise  to  let  her  come,  he  had  his 


THE  MIRACLE  163 

own  ideas  of  his  power  over  Mary.  He  had  taken  no  notice 
of  her  saying  that  she  hated  him  unless  it  were  to  convince 
him  of  the  fear  he  knew  she  had  of  him  in  her  heart.  He 
believed  by  wheedling  and  alternate  flashings  of  his  tem- 
per, he  could  still  get  so  much  work  out  of  her  as  would 
save  him  the  expense  of  a  paid  hand. 

This  then  was  his  bargain  made,  a  better  one  than  he 
had  ever  hoped  for.  Still  holding  the  fisherman's  hand  as 
he  had  been  doing  for  the  last  few  minutes,  he  wrung  it 
with  a  hearty  grip  and  let  it  fall. 

"Very  well  so,"  said  he,  "that's  fair  and  square.  Let 
ye  be  coming  back  now  with  me  to  the  house  and  we'll  be 
takin'  a  drop  between  us  for  the  luck  of  it." 

He  picked  up  his  gun  and  was  just  about  to  march  up 
the  headland  of  the  field  when  his  eyes  caught  the  sight  of 
a  chaffinch  settling  on  one  of  the  stacks  of  barley.  Its  chirp 
ceased  as  it  fell  to  its  meal  with  the  trustful  effrontery  of 
its  kind. 

"God  blast  those  finches !"  he  exclaimed  and  flung  up  the 
gun  to  his  shoulder  and  fired. 

A  little  heap  of  fluttering  feathers,  of  torn  flesh  riddled 
with  shot  and  red  with  thick  drops  of  blood,  fell  down  into 
the  stubble. 

"That's  emptied  his  crop,"  said  he,  and  blew  the  smoke 
in  a  grey  wreath  out  of  the  barrel  of  his  gun. 


KIRWAN'S  was  the  only  farm  within  a  wide  radius 
of  Ardnashiela  where  they  had  machinery  for  the 
threshing.  It  was  an  antiquated  contrivance  relying 
upon  horse  power.  Harnessed  to  two  long  shafts  attached 
to  a  kind  of  windlass,  the  two  animals  walked  round  and 
round  in  a  wide  circle,  treading  a  pathway  that  had  long 
been  beaten  into  a  hard,  bare  track.  This  device  connected 
with  the  flails  and  winnows  in  a  barn  close  by  behind  the 
house.  It  was  a  slow  process  and,  excepting  that  it  saved 
the  labour  of  men,  little  in  advance  of  the  flails  worked  by 
hand  on  the  threshing  floor. 

Two  days  after  Fennel  had  talked  with  the  farmer  in  the 
barley  field,  the  thrum  of  the  old  cogged  wheels  and  the 
murmur  of  the  flails  in  the  barn  was  heard  in  Ardnashiela 
like  the  note  of  a  corncrake  across  the  still  air.  Kirwan 
had  begun  his  threshing.  The  extra  hands  were  called  in — 
girls  from  the  village,  a  man  or  two  from  neighbouring  farms 
where  they  had  no  arable  land  and  labour  could  be  spared. 
From  early  morning  till  the  light  went  as  the  sun  drifted  and 
drooped  behind  the  headlands,  there  was  a  humming  of  life 
around  the  farm  buildings.  The  throb  of  the  thresher  was 
its  tuning  key,  vibrating  in  an  endless  note.  Round  and 
round  to  the  unsparing  whip  in  Kirwan's  hand,  the  horses 
beat  out  their  circle.  In  and  out  of  the  barn,  like  ants 
toiling,  empty  or  laden  with  their  pitchforked  burdens  of 
straw,  the  men  came  and  went,  came  and  went.  With 
their  shawls  tightly  fastened  about  their  heads  to  keep  the 

164 


THE  MIRACLE  165 

dust  out  of  their  hair,  the  girls  carried  the  fine  dross  of  the 
cavell  to  a  temporary  stack  behind  the  house. 

Around  and  amongst  this  troupe  of  workers,  a  ring- 
master with  the  insignia  of  the  whip,  always  ready  in  his 
hand  for  the  tiring  horses  Kirwan  moved  with  a  sharp  eye 
for  indolence.  His  temper  flashed  out  when  he  found  it. 
He  was  paying  wages  and  dared  to  abuse.  The  curses  of 
God  and  the  Mother  of  God  he  called  down  upon  their  sloth. 
The  spittle  bubbled  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth.  Because 
they  were  receiving  wages  they  went  on  with  a  momentary 
quickening  of  their  movements.  The  blows  that  seemed 
imminent  at  every  one  of  these  outbursts  never  materialised. 
They  settled  down  to  the  comparative  stillness  of  the  throb- 
bing flails,  the  tread  of  the  horses  and  men  and  the  constant 
whispering  rustle  of  the  straw. 

For  three  days  it  was  the  prevailing  music  about  the 
farm  and  across  the  distance  hummed  with  a  muted  note  in 
every  cottage  in  Ardnashiela.  At  the  washing  the  women 
heard  it  through  the  splashing  of  the  water  in  the  tub.  Still 
at  the  mending  of  his  nets  on  the  sea-wall,  Fennel  heard 
it  too. 

Every  sound  those  days  had  a  ring  of  joy  in  it  to  him, 
but  none  so  loud  or  uplifting  in  his  ears  as  that.  It  had  all 
been  settled  that  day  at  the  farm  but  no  one  as  yet  had  been 
told  of  it.  With  a  feeling  for  ceremony  where  Fennel  had 
none  and  Mary  had  seemed  not  unkindly  indifferent,  Kirwan 
had  said  he  would  announce  it  and  drink  their  health  in 
proper  fashion  the  time  they  would  be  dancing  on  the  floor 
of  the  house  after  the  threshing. 

Father  Costello,  the  only  man  to  whom  the  fisherman  had 
wished  to  tell  his  good  news,  was  not  seen  by  him  for  any 
of  those  three  days.  He  was  in  the  village,  but  Fennel  was 
too  timid  about  the  whole  matter  now  it  was  settled  to  go 
and  seek  him  out  where  he  lived  in  the  Main  Street. 


166  THE  MIRACLE 

Kirwan  had  met  him.  Going  out  to  Killanardrish  to 
inform  the  Parish  Priest  and  make  arrangements  for  Mary's 
marriage,  he  had  found  Father  Costello  returning  from  a 
visit  to  Grange  by  the  road  that  forks  left  to  Doonvarna. 

"Couldn't  I  tell  ye  a  bit  of  news!"  he  called  out  before 
they  met.  "  'Tis  grand  for  the  house  itself,  Father,  is  this 
day." 

Father  Costello  nodded  his  head. 

"Well — tell  me  what  it  is,"  said  he. 

With  great  praise  he  had  to  be  saying  for  the  virtues  of 
Fennel,  the  farmer  told  him.  He  made  a  great  match  of 
it.  She  had  got  the  best  man  in  Ardnashiela,  with  the  money 
he  had  saved  and  the  steadiness  he  had  for  his  work. 

"The  best  man  there  is,"  Father  Costello  agreed. 

"Shure,  'tis  pounds  and  pounds  he  has  up  there  in  his 
cottage  on  the  cliff  road,  the  way  he'll  be  able  to  put  herself 
in  a  grand  way  of  living." 

The  priest's  eyes  looked  into  Kirwan's. 

"And  the  fine  dowry,"  said  he,  "you'll  be  able  to  be  giving 
her  yourself." 

The  father  shifted  his  look  to  the  sky  as  though  he  feared 
the  weather  were  changing  for  his  threshing. 

"Ah — well,"  said  he,  "shure  I  dunno  what'll  be  settled 
yet.  Isn't  it  takin'  a  hand  away  from  me  he  is,  the  way  I'd 
be  losin'  more  money  in  a  year  than  I  can  ever  spare  herself 
for  a  dowry.  I  dunno  what'll  be  settled  yet.  Faith,  there's 
no  man  in  these  parts  will  say  I'm  not  generous  with  the 
little  bit  I'd  have.  There  is  not." 

"You'll  want  all  the  generosity  you've  got,"  said  the 
priest,  "to  be  doing  the  right  thing  by  her.  When  are  they 
to  be  married?" 

"I'm  goin'  out  to  see  himself  about  that  at  Killanardrish 
now." 


THE  MIRACLE  167 

"And  they  all  know  about  it  in  Ardnashiela?" 

A  look  of  gross  mischief  winked  in  the  farmer's  eyes. 

"There's  not  a  soul  will  know  but  yeerself  and  Father 
Roche  till  we'd  be  havin'  the  dancin'  on  the  floor  after  the 
threshin'.  Shure,  if  I  give  it  that  time,  'tis  not  another  feast 
they'll  be  wantin'  at  all  with  the  weddin'.  'Tis  that  way  they'll 
be  able  to  go  quiet  up  to  their  own  place  for  the  grand  night 
they'd  be  havin'  with  themselves  and  no  waitin'  till  they're 
all  drunk.  Shure,  isn't  that  pints  of  porter  it'll  be  savin' 
me  for  I  must  give  them  a  fling  after  the  threshin'." 

Father  Costello  stood  there  on  the  road  and  stared  at 
him.  He  had  not  the  emotion  to  be  judging  him  fairly  for 
just  his  meanness  as  a  man.  Disgust  was  in  him.  He 
could  not  hide  it  out  of  his  face.  Doubtless  the  farmer 
saw  it,  for  in  his  eagerness  to  defend  himself,  he  added, 

"Shure,  there's  no  harm  in  that.  Won't  a  man  is  timid 
the  way  Fennel  is,  be  glad  of  the  quietness  he'd  be  gettin' 
on  his  marriage  night?  He  will  of  course.  Yirra,  can't  I 
see  with  me  both  eyes,  'tis  himself  is  achin*  for  her" — 
Father  Costello  turned  away — "an'  'tis  not  a  man  is  like 
that,"  Kirwan  called  after  him,  "would  want  to  be  wastin' 
his  time  steppin'  round  to  a  scratchy  tune." 

He  stood  there  watching  the  departing  figure  of  the 
priest,  wondering  what  he  had  said  to  offend  him,  thinking 
how  little  good  a  man  was  to  be  understanding  the  plain  ways 
of  life  once  he  had  entered  the  Church. 

"Will  ye  come  yeerself  to  the  dancin'?"  he  called  out, 
"and  'twill  be  a  grand  thing,  ye  givin'  them  yer  blessin' 
on  the  floor." 

The  priest  half  turned  as  he  walked. 

"I  will  not,  thank  you,"  he  called  back. 

"Shure,  p'raps  there  mightn't  be  so  much  porter  drunk  if 
ye  was  there  yeerself!" 


168  THE  MIRACLE 

He  did  not  answer.  He  did  not  look  back  again.  Per- 
haps with  the  sound  of  his  feet  on  the  hard  road  he  had  not 
heard. 

James  Kirwan  turned  on  his  heel  and  continued  his  way 
to  Killanardrish. 


XI 

THERE  was  a  barrel  of  porter  ordered  from  Creasy' 
for  the  feast  after  the  threshing.  They  sat  about 
on  long  forms  in  the  kitchen,  men  and  girls  eating 
and  drinking,  in  silence  mostly  with  undivided  attention, 
as  though  a  free  meal  were  an  occasion  that  needed  full 
justice  done  to  it.  A  flitch  of  home-cured  bacon  had  been 
boiled  the  day  before.  It  was  portioned  out  to  them  in  greasy 
lumps.  They  held  it  with  their  fingers  to  the  bread  and  ate 
them  both  together.  Sometimes  a  piece  slipped  away  on  to 
the  floor  and  was  picked  up,  rubbed  not  infrequently  with  the 
sleeve  of  a  coat,  and  then  consumed. 

The  kitchen  was  filled  with  the  sounds  of  eating  and 
drinking,  with  the  rancid  odours  of  perspiration  and  the 
smell  of  porter  that  hangs  heavily  in  the  sweetest  air.  While 
the  feast  was  going  on,  there  was  little  that  was  gentle  or 
human  about  them.  There  was  greed  in  their  eyes  as  they 
consumed  their  food.  Glances  shot  here  and  there  lest  any 
one  of  them  should  not  be  ready  when  the  plates  of  bacon 
and  bread  came  round  again.  And  when  they  did,  shrewd 
eyes  picked  out  the  meatiest  morsels,  while  hands  were  half 
lifted,  waiting  with  unconcealed  impatience  for  their  turn. 

None  of  them  seemed  to  notice  Fennel's  presence  amongst 
them,  unless  in  a  sort  of  resentment  that  he  had  done  no 
work  at  the  threshing  and  was  an  extra  mouth  to  feed, 
delaying  the  plate  or  the  jug  of  porter  as  it  came  round. 

It  was  to  their  astonishment  when  the  feast  was  nearly 
over  and  they  could  only  have  eaten  more  had  it  been 
thrust  upon  them,  that  James  Kirwan  stood  up  to  his  feet  and 

169 


170  THE  MIRACLE 

held  aloft  his  glass  of  porter.    A  row  of  open  mouths  turned 
to  him  as  they  prepared  to  listen. 

"Have  ye  all  eaten  yeerselves?"  he  began. 
One  or  two  of  the  men  spoke  up  to  say  they  had.  The 
drooping  lethargy  of  the  rest  answered  for  itself.  There 
was  no  longer  any  quickness  of  movement  amongst  them. 
Their  eyes  turned  sluggishly  with  the  surfeit  of  food.  But 
their  imaginations  were  sharp  enough  to  quicken  to  the  sense 
that  something  unexpected  was  about  to  happen. 

"Have  ye  all  got  a  drop  of  porter  in  yeer  glasses  ?"  Kirwan 
continued.  They  had.  So  long  as  it  was  a  drop  only  he 
made  no  offer  to  fill  them. 

Hoping  that  more  was  to  be  given  him,  one  of  the  men 
swallowed  hastily  what  he  had  and  held  up  his  empty  glass. 
"I  could  take  a  drop  here,"  he  called  out. 
With  eyes  that  seemed  to  be  seeing  nothing  and  with 
her  limbs  moving  as  they  move  who  walk  in  their  sleep, 
Mary  brought  the  jug  to  him  and  filled  his  glass. 

Fennel  snatched  one  glance  at  her.  It  was  timid  and 
nervous  he  thought  she  was,  like  himself.  They  knew  what 
was  about  to  happen.  In  such  little  talk  as  he  had  had  with 
her  since  that  day  in  the  yard,  she  had  shown  nothing  but 
the  quietness  of  consent.  That  had  satisfied  him.  It  was 
human  enough  in  him  and  would  have  been  in  any  man,  to  be 
easily  dissuaded  from  his  magnanimous  offer  to  set  her  free 
from  her  word.  She  had  continued  in  her  consent.  That  was 
enough  to  him.  He  was  unable  to  recognise  in  it  the  tragedy 
of  submission.  With  that  swift  glance,  he  looked  no  more. 
"Now,"  said  Kirwan,  "I've  a  grand  health  itself  for  ye 
to  be  drinkin'.  Thanks  be  to  God  we've  got  the  corn  in, 
and  shure  the  Lord  Himself  knows  'tis  no  fine  crop  on  land 
is  starvin'  the  like  of  this,  for  'tis  not  the  floors  of  Heaven 
we're  standin*  on,  but  the  land  of  Ireland — God  help  us! 
But  faith,  if  there's  no  fine  crop  I  have  to  be  shoutin*  about, 


THE  MIRACLE  171 

there's  a  better  thing  has  happened  me.  Will  ye  drink  the 
porter  out  of  yeer  glasses  to  Joe  Fennel,  the  fisherman  him- 
self, that  has  asked  the  word  from  Mary,  the  daughter  of 
the  house." 

She  heard  the  moment's  pause  of  silence,  then  the  laughter 
and  the  voices  confusing  each  other  with  their  congratula- 
tions closed  in  about  her  ears  and  were  like  sounds  of  the 
sea  when  the  winter  storms  were  flinging  it  up  onto  her 
father's  land.  She  knew  that  the  hands  of  the  girls  were 
taking  her  hands  and  smacking  her  on  the  shoulders,  for 
there  were  few  of  them  there  had  not  thought  of  Fennel  for 
themselves  and  none  without  the  pride  in  that  company  to 
conceal  it. 

She  knew  she  was  smiling  at  those  about  her.  A  self  in 
her — that  self  they  would  one  day  be  taking  up  to  lie  under 
the  grass  in  the  graveyard  on  the  hill — had  already  begun 
the  automatic  performance  of  those  duties  it  would  from 
this  onward  be  her  calling  to  obey.  They  whispered  things 
in  her  ears,  the  ones  who  knew  her  best,  as  they  clung  about 
her.  It  was  perhaps  her  fortune  that  she  did  not  hear  them. 
The  confusion  of  it  all  and  just  the  realisation  that  it  was 
all  inevitable  now  blunted  her  senses. 

One  clear  impression  only  shot  with  a  piercing  vividness 
into  her  mind.  In  the  midst  of  all  that  clamour  of  laughter 
and  talk,  she  caught  sight  of  her  mother  in  the  chimney 
corner,  looking  on  at  it  all  with  an  inscrutable  smile  that 
played  about  her  lips  only  and  had  no  confirmation  of  pleas- 
ure or  satisfaction  in  her  eyes. 

With  no  subtlety  of  insight  it  seemed  to  Mary  as  though 
her  mother  were  looking  on  at  a  familiar  scene,  none  of  the 
meaning  of  which  was  hidden  from  her.  In  that  smile  she 
felt  there  was  pity,  amusement,  and  a  certain  bitterness,  but 
nothing  of  joy.  In  all  that  crowd  of  people,  she,  it  appeared 
to  Mary,  was  the  only  one  who  was  not  deceived  by  the 


172  THE  MIRACLE 

jollity  of  the  occasion.  Like  Mary  herself,  she  seemed  aloof 
and  outside  it  all  and  with  nothing  but  a  relentless  loneliness 
that  had  made  her  what  she  was. 

With  that  smile,  it  was  as  though  in  so  many  words 
she  were  saying  in  a  silence  to  herself,  "Women  are  beasts 
like  the  cattle  in  the  yard — 'tis  only  times  of  sale  maybe 
they'd  have  the  passin'  joy  of  a  few  ribbands  in  their  hair 
while  the  chains  'ud  be  fastened  round  them." 

And  when  it  was  this  she  saw,  Mary's  heart  cried  out 
in  dumb  sounds  to  the  thought  of  the  priest — the  look  in  his 
eyes  that  day  on  the  rocks,  the  sound  of  anger  in  his  voice 
and  his  going  that  very  night  to  Fennel,  urging  him  to  be 
swift  in  getting  her  word. 

It  was  true  he  had  hinted  there  was  another  man.  There 
was !  There  always  would  be !  All  her  life  long  she  would 
remember  that  morning  and  her  pain  as  she  lay  afterwards 
alone  upon  the  rocks. 

If  pain  was  all  life  had,  then  it  was  pain  she  wanted.  To 
be  hurt  deep  down  into  her  soul  would  be  better  than  this 
submission  to  content.  It  seemed  no  pain  was  greater  than 
she  could  bear,  if  only  it  was  a  real  pain,  cutting,  excruciating, 
wounding  her  to  death  if  it  must. 

The  cry  of  those  dumb  sounds  were  upon  the  edge  of 
her  lips  when  the  blind  man  struck  up  the  tune  upon  his  riddle 
and  they  were  all  hurrying  to  clear  the  floor  for  the  dancing. 
Then  the  smile  she  had  that  was  set  about  her  mouth,  turned 
into  a  shrill  laugh.  She  found  she  was  dancing  with  the 
boldest  of  the  men  amongst  them  who  had  caught  her  by  the 
waist  and  was  muttering  into  her  ear  what  a  lucky  fellow 
was  Fennel,  the  fisherman,  to  be  having  the  word  from  her 
that  day. 

They  all  called  out  to  him  to  let  go  his  arm  of  her  for 
that  it  was  Fennel  himself  she  ought  to  be  stepping  the  first 
dance  with.  Yet  he  still  clasped  her  till  Mary  slipped  from 


THE  MIRACLE  173 

him  and  stood  there  on  the  floor,  waiting  for  the  fisherman 
to  take  her. 

"Ah,  shure,  let  her  go  on,"  he  muttered  in  a  pain  of 
confusion.  "There's  never  a  step  I  danced  in  me  life  and 
'tis  sooner  I'd  be  watchin'  herself  with  her  feet  movin'  to 
the  tune  than  meself  stampin'  the  way  I'd  be  goin'  on  to  it." 

It  was  early  in  the  evening  and  they  let  him  have  his 
way  then  because  they  all  knew  he  was  a  timid  man  and  had 
never  been  seen  at  the  cross-road  or  dancing  in  any  place 
at  all. 

So  she  was  swept  again  into  the  swirl  of  them  and  there 
were  some  girls  whispering  it  was  a  poor  manner  he  was 
taking  the  joy  that  was  coming  to  him  and  wasn't  Mary 
herself  too  light  in  her  heart,  the  way  she  was  dancing,  for 
the  likes  of  him. 

Even  James  Kirwan  himself,  who  had  no  ear  for  a  tune, 
seized  a  girl  round  the  middle  and  flung  her  out  into  the 
dancing,  for  he  was  in  a  good  humour,  counting  the  money 
he  had  saved  without  giving  Mary  her  bounty. 

From  one  tune  to  another  the  blind  man  plied  his  fiddle, 
whether  they  were  dancing  or  the  men  were  drinking  in  the 
heat  of  the  room  or  whatever  they  were  doing.  If  for  an 
instant  he  stopped  to  put  fresh  grip  of  resin  to  his  bow,  it 
was  Mary  first  who  called  out  to  him  to  be  going  on.  The 
sound  of  a  fiddle  at  all  times  leapt  quickly  in  her  blood. 
It  was  witchcraft  to  her  now.  She  gave  her  feet  to  madness 
in  the  measure  of  it.  She  laughed  aloud  when  they  flung  her 
round.  If  she  looked  at  Fennel  at  all,  it  was  with  her  eyes 
bright  and  fevered  in  which  he  saw  nothing  but  laughter 
and  wondered  was  there  ever  a  man  like  himself  to  be  taking 
so  young  a  girl  into  his  home. 

In  the  midst  of  it  suddenly  there  was  one  man  with  her 
who  stopped  and  said  he  would  dance  no  more  till  himself 
and  herself  had  had  their  step  on  the  floor.  There  were 


174  THE  MIRACLE 

many  of  them  had  drink  taken  by  then  and  whether  they 
were  glad  to  be  sitting  down  or  not,  the  idea  caught  their 
fancy.  Some  of  them  left  their  partners  at  once  and  sat 
down  to  be  making  room  on  the  floor. 

"Shure  what  the  hell  does  it  matter,"  the  man  called  out, 
"can  he  dance  or  not?  'Tis  herself  can  dance  well  enough 
for  the  both  of  them  and  'tis  not  at  a  wake  he  is,  sittin'  there 
with  his  hands  in  the  gap  of  his  legs !" 

She  was  laughing  still  as  she  came  to  him  and  lifted  him 
to  his  feet,  still  unwilling  and  protesting  pathetically.  But 
the  laughter  that  was  never  in  her  heart  went  out  of  the 
light  of  her  face  as  the  blind  man  stopped  his  jigging  tune 
and,  lifting  his  bow  again,  began  one  of  his  minor  melodies 
of  Ireland  that  have  little  step  to  them  but  music  of  a  heart 
would  be  wandering  through  the  waste  land  of  the  bogs, 
climbing  sometimes  with  a  far-off  laughter  amongst  the  bent 
thorn  trees  on  the  hills,  then  on  again,  still  wandering 
through  the  glens. 

"In  the  name  of  God  let  ye  be  playin'  a  smarter  tune 
than  that !"  James  Kir  wan  called  out. 

"He  will  not !"  cried  Mary.  "Let  him  play  the  tune  would 
be  comin'  to  him.  'Tis  easier  it  is  for  one  would  not  be 
havin'  the  way  of  his  steps." 

They  were  all  sitting  down.  It  was  Mary  and  Fennel 
alone  who  were  dancing.  She  moved  her  steps  so  simply 
that  it  was  not  hard  for  him  to  be  moving  with  her.  Not 
one  of  them  in  all  the  room  was  laughing  at  them  then,  for  the 
music  of  the  fiddle  had  got  into  their  ears  and  the  sadness  of 
Ireland  was  in  it  and  there  was  not  one  of  them,  however  far 
gone  he  was  in  drink,  but  knew  there  was  death  and  a  strange 
wandering  at  the  end  of  all  things. 

To  Mary  herself  in  her  ears,  the  sadness  was  the  sound 
of  that  other  self  that  was  calling  her.  And  she  knew  in 
some  dream  her  mind  was  in,  she  could  never  leave  the  arms 


THE  MIRACLE  175 

that  held  her.  But  as  long  as  the  voice  was  calling  her  out 
of  the  notes  of  the  blind  man's  fiddle,  she  was  content  to  go 
on  dancing  there,  with  Fennel's  hand  gripped  at  her  waist 
and  her  head  near  against  his  shoulder. 

So  they  were  dancing,  stepping  it  alone  in  all  the  room, 
with  the  others  sitting  round  on  the  forms,  some  nodding 
their  heads  to  the  plaint  of  it,  some  tapping  their  feet  to  the 
tune,  when  the  door  opened  into  the  farmer's  kitchen  and 
Father  Costello  stood  there  with  the  night  behind  him. 

As  if  there  were  a  spell  over  all  of  them,  they  made  no 
disturbance  of  greeting.  Softly  he  closed  the  door  behind 
and  stood  there  while  the  dance  went  on.  When  they  passed 
close  to  him  for  the  first  time,  he  forced  himself  to  look  at 
Mary  and  over  the  breadth  of  Fennel's  shoulder  as  she 
moved  by,  her  eyes  fell  into  his. 


XII 

I  HE  blind  man  was  sitting  on  the  table.  His  legs 
were  swinging  in  the  air  as  he  played  and  his  heels 
knocking  to  the  beat  of  the  tune.  When  their  dance 
was  finished  and  the  greetings  of  the  priest  were  done  with 
as  they  were  called  out  by  one  or  another  and  made  much 
of  in  his  pride  by  Kirwan  himself,  Father  Costello  drew 
away  from  the  rest  of  them  and  took  the  blind  man's  cus- 
temary  seat  in  the  recess  of  the  chimney. 

"Well — this  is  a  great  night  for  you,"  he  said  across  the 
peat  fire  to  Mrs.  Kirwan. 

She  nodded  her  head  as  the  fiddle  started  up  again  and 
the  noise  of  the  heavy  feet  scraped  and  the  light  feet  tapped 
on  the  floor.  There  was  a  weariness  in  her  eyes  now  as 
though  the  heat  of  the  room  and  the  sound  of  the  music  and 
voices  could  lift  her  to  pity  or  amusement  no  more.  Even 
the  smile  that  Mary  had  seen  was  gone,  the  bitterness  that 
was  in  her,  tired.  She  raised  herself  to  her  feet  as  a  woman 
that  is  old. 

"  'Tis  a  grand  night  it  is  indeed,"  she  echoed  him,  "for 
those  would  have  no  knowin'  what  there'd  be  for  them  in 
sleep." 

"Faith,  'tis  not  going  to  your  bed  you  are!" 

"I  am  so." 

She  moved  quietly  out  of  the  chimney  corner  onto  the 
floor  at  the  fringe  of  the  passing  girls  and  men. 

"Shure,  they  won't  let  you  go  till  'tis  all  over." 

She  smiled  then.  It  was  like  a  smile  on  the  lips  of  a 
mask,  but  the  eyes  that  were  behind  it  looked  into  his  own. 

176 


THE  MIRACLE  177 

They  told  him  he  knew  well  it  was  only  words  he  said  and 
that  when  there  is  young  blood  quick  and  hot  in  young  veins 
it  was  not  a  woman  going  to  her  sleep  they  would  be  noticing 
one  way  or  another. 

They  brushed  against  her  and  jostled  her  as  they  went  by, 
but  not  one  of  them  saw  her  leaving  them.  It  was  when 
she  was  gone  and  Father  Costello  heard  the  door  out  of  the 
room  close  behind  her,  that  he  knew  what  it  was  she  had 
said  to  him. 

"It's  a  grand  night  indeed,"  he  said  over  to  himself, 
"for  those  would  have  no  knowing  what  there'd  be  for  them 
in  sleep." 

Then  he  tried  to  look  at  the  dancing,  yet  never  at  Mary 
herself.  The  men  and  the  girls  began  to  float  rather  than 
dance  in  their  movement  before  his  eyes.  The  tune  of  the 
fiddle  beat  to  a  pulse  in  his  head  as  though  the  bow  with 
its  resin  were  scraping  backwards  and  forwards,  backwards 
and  forwards  against  his  brain.  The  odour  of  the  men  and 
•women  and  the  smell  of  the  porter,  that  had  been  a  stench 
to  him  when  first  he  came  in  from  the  sweet  night  outside, 
had  passed  the  sense  of  his  nostrils  and  lay  heavily  like  a 
dead  weight,  aching  upon  his  mind. 

He  knew  his  reasons  for  coming,  but  he  began  to  wonder 
why  he  had  obeyed  them  at  all.  The  heat  of  the  room  was 
stifling  him  and  then  a  whiff  of  smoke  from  the  peat  fire 
with  its  dry,  clean  aromatic  scent,  came  across  his  senses. 
It  reminded  him  of  incense.  The  music  of  High  Mass,  as  he 
had  heard  it  in  the  cathedrals  abroad,  floated  by  him,  above 
and  beyond  the  sound  of  the  fiddle.  With  a  deep  breath 
of  it,  he  dragged  his  thoughts  away  from  their  spell  of 
lethargy  and  told  himself  he  was  glad  he  had  come  and  that 
he  had  all  the  strength  of  ideals  a  man  needed,  if  he  could 
face  the  danger  to  his  soul  as  he  was  facing  it  there. 

With  the  courage  of  that  thought  in  him,  he  dared  to 


178  THE  MIRACLE 

look  straight  at  Mary  as  she  went  by.  He  thought  there 
was  a  calmness  in  his  eyes.  He  did  not  know  how  eagerly 
they  stared  and  his  heart  dropped  to  a  beat  of  sickness  and 
fear  when  he  saw  her  whisper  a  word  to  her  partner  and 
leave  him  there  standing  on  the  floor  to  find  his  way  back 
to  the  place  where  he  had  been  sitting. 

She  threaded  her  way  through  the  dancers  and  came  across 
to  the  fire,  taking  the  seat  where  her  mother  had  been  and, 
with  eyes  that  still  had  fever  in  them,  looking  across  the 
fire  at  him. 

"Why  did  ye  come?"  she  asked. 

He  could  not  judge  from  her  voice  whether  she  were 
glad  or  sorry  that  he  had.  His  courage  was  gone  again.  It 
seemed  to  drift  out  of  him,  to  be  burnt  in  the  fire  and, 
charred  and  light,  like  the  ashes  of  paper,  to  be  borne  away 
with  the  heat  and  the  blue  smoke  up  into  the  black  cavern  of 
the  chimney. 

He  tried  to  tell  her  the  real  truth,  his  first  reason,  the 
reason  of  his  spirit,  that  unless  he  could  see  her  there  in 
the  arms  of  the  man  who  had  chosen  her  and  without  fear, 
he  had  known  there  would  be  no  more  courage  in  him  again. 
He  tried  to  say  that.  The  words  seemed  to  come  boldly 
to  the  very  edge  of  his  lips.  But  they  were  not  the  words 
he  said. 

"It  was  two  days  ago — what  your  father  said  to  me  on 
the  road." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"'Perhaps  there  mightn't  be  so  much  porter  drunk,'  he 
said  to  me,  "if  ye  were  there  yerself." 

With  no  hesitation  or  doubt,  she  knew  why  her  father 
had  said  that.  At  any  other  time  she  would  have  laughed  at 
it,  but  now  she  sought  only  to  learn  how  it  had  brought  him 


THE  MIRACLE  179 

there.  When  he  would  not  answer  the  question  there  was  in 
her  eyes,  she  asked  him. 

"I  knew  you  didn't  like  a  man  with  much  drink  taken," 
he  said,  "I  knew  it  was  ugly  you'd  find  it,  if  they  were 
rowdy  and  dirty  in  their  drink.  I  just  thought — that  was  all 
—if  I  came—" 

He  had  thought  all  that.  It  was  true  what  he  said,  but 
he  had  never  meant  to  tell  her  this.  If  there  was  anything 
he  had  wished  to  show  her  that  night,  it  was  that  there  was 
the  full  spirit  of  courage  in  him  to  put  her  away;  to  let  her 
understand,  without  the  words  of  it,  that  if  she  had  known 
what  his  look  upon  her  bare  arm  had  meant  that  day,  or 
divined  the  meaning  of  the  anger  he  had  had  in  his  voice, 
there  was  notwithstanding  no  lasting  power  in  her  to  find 
the  weakness  in  him  again. 

Yet  this  was  what  he  had  said  and  she  was  there  begging 
him  for  a  closer  explanation  of  his  words.  Still  weaker 
in  him  than  all,  he  had  given  it  her. 

When  he  looked  up  at  her  from  speaking  across  the 
smoke  of  the  fire,  her  eyes  were  leaden  and  heavy  with 
tenderness  and  there  was  a  sullen  look  of  passion,  almost  to 
sulkiness,  about  her  lips. 

"Go  back  and  dance,"  he  muttered.     "Go  back." 

Without  another  word  or  look  at  him,  she  got  up  and 
went  out  into  the  midst  of  them  and  presently  he  heard 
her  laugh  above  the  voices  of  the  others.  It  passed  through 
him,  burning  and  searing  as  it  went.  He  leapt  up  quickly 
to  his  feet.  It  was  beyond  his  endurance  to  stay  there  longer. 
There  was  not  a  man  dancing  on  the  floor,  with  all  the 
drink  that  had  been  going,  but  had  the  senses  clearer  in  him 
than  this. 

It  was  as  he  stood  up  that  an  old  clock  on  the  dresser 
struck  the  hour  of  midnight  and  ushered  in  the  Friday  morn- 
ing of  the  new  day. 


180  THE  MIRACLE 

Whether  this  was  a  contrivance  of  Kirwan's  or  not,  begin- 
ning his  threshing  on  the  Tuesday  so  that  the  entertainment 
should  be  on  the  Thursday,  it  certainly  was  into  a  fast  day 
they  had  danced  and  drunk  and  eaten  themselves.  The  priest 
was  there.  This  it  was  perhaps  what  the  farmer  had  meant 
when  he  said  there  was  less  porter  would  be  consumed. 

The  sounds  of  the  fiddle  died  away.  The  scratching  and 
the  tapping  of  the  feet  ceased.  Their  threshing  feast  was 
over. 

The  very  first  to  go  was  Fennel.  It  was  sadly  enough 
he  had  felt  out  of  his  element  all  that  evening  and  knew  the 
chaff  and  laughter  they  would  heap  upon  him  walking  back 
along  the  strand  to  Ardnashiela.  With  a  hurried  word  of 
parting  and  a  deep  breath  as  he  held  her  hand,  he  had  left 
Mary  and  slipped  out  of  the  door.  She  could  not  tell  with 
what  emotion  it  was  she  had  let  him  go.  She  had  not  offered 
to  keep  him,  yet  in  a  vague  apprehension  wished  he  had 
not  gone. 

When  her  father  heard  he  had  departed  and  in  his  absence 
blasphemed  and  swore  it  was  a  poor  way  to  be  leaving  a  girl 
on  the  last  note  of  the  tune;  when  with  some  of  the  men 
he  too  went  out  to  see  could  they  overtake  or  call  him  to 
bring  him  back  for  the  priest's  blessing  on  them  both; 
when,  one  by  one,  the  men  flung  on  their  hats  and  the  girls 
tossed  their  shawls  over  their  heads,  having  the  jest  of  a 
word  or  a  laugh  to  give  Mary  as  they  went  out,  she  began 
to  know  what  her  apprehensions  had  been. 

They  were  leaving  her  alone  with  the  priest.  He  saw 
the  approach  of  it,  yet  could  not  move.  There  was  no 
stability  in  any  intention  now  that  came  into  his  mind.  A 
moment  before  he  could  stay  no  longer.  Now  he  could  not 
force  himself  to  go  away. 

Seeing  the  approach  of  it  too,  she  stood  near  the  door 
as  they  went  out,  her  smile  coming  and  going  as  they  passed 


THE  MIRACLE  181 

her.  And  when  they  were  all  gone,  with  no  apparent  voli- 
tion, but  as  if  she  had  been  told  to  do  so,  she  shut  the  door. 
There  was  the  blind  man  still  there.  He  could  not  save 
them  from  each  other's  eyes,  but  the  speech  she  had  feared, 
and  the  sound  of  the  priest's  words  and  the  vibrations  in 
her  heart  his  voice  made  whenever  she  heard  it  now,  she 
was  safe  from  these. 

It  was  still  at  the  doorway  she  was  standing  and  the 
silence  was  throbbing  with  the  beat  of  her  pulse.  He  knew 
as  well  it  was  not  that  way  they  could  endure  it  much 
longer.  As  well  with  her,  he  looked  to  the  presence  of  the 
blind  man  to  save  them.  There  he  still  sat  on  the  table 
beside  his  fiddle  and  the  glass  of  porter  they  had  given  him. 
Still  swinging  his  legs  and  clacking  his  heels,  he  was  humming 
over  the  tunes  he  had  played  with  a  melancholy  in  his  voice 
as  though  he  were  loth  to  leave  them. 

"What  was  that  slow  tune  you  were  playing,  blind  man?" 
asked  Father  Costello  with  any  words  that  came  first  to 
him  to  say.  "Where  did  it  come  from?  I  never  heard  it 
before." 

"Shure  I've  played  thirrty  tunes  this  night  and  wasn't 
there  a  time  itself  to  all  of  them?" 

Mary  knew  well  which  tune  he  meant.  Seeking  no  con- 
firmation for  the  instinct  she  had,  she  told  him  it  was  that 
her  father  had  called  to  him  to  cease  playing. 

He  took  up  his  fiddle  at  once  and  played  the  first  snatch 
of  it. 

"That's  the  one,"  said  Father  Costello.  "Where  did  you 
learn  that  tune?" 

The  blind  man  raised  his  chin  from  the  instrument  and 
stared  with  his  eyes  out  into  the  room. 

"'Twas  one  night  I  heard  that,"  he  whispered,  "high 
away  and  alone  in  the  hills  of  Galway." 

"How  was  it  you  heard  it  there  ?'J 


182  THE  MIRACLE 

"  'Twas  in  the  wind  I  heard  it  and  the  shiverin'  of  the 
heather — in  the  brown  water  was  creepin'  under  the  moss 
and  the  long  cry  of  hoverin'  birds  over  the  grey  crags  of 
the  rocks." 

"You  mean  you  made  it  yourself  ?" 

"I  did  not.  'Twas  with  the  both  of  me  ears  I  heard  it. 
Weren't  They  playin*  it  in  the  long  blue  drift  of  the  lone- 
some light  and  'twas  Their  feet  steppin'  it  on  the  stones,  I 
heard  meself.  And  may  God  and  all  His  saints  and  the 
Holy  Mother  herself  leave  me  alone  in  me  darkness  if  that's 
not  the  truth  I'm  tellin*  ye  now." 

With  an  instant's  tremor  that  seemed  to  pass  through 
him,  like  a  wind  chilling  his  blood,  he  snatched  the  fiddle 
again  to  his  chin  and  began  to  play  it  from  the  beginning, 
and,  when  he  had  once  started,  continued  muttering  in  his 
breath, 

"Let  me  hear  the  feet — let  me  be  hearin'  them,  I'm  sayin'. 
Let  me  hear  the  feet." 

Father  Costello  had  kept  his  eyes  away  from  Mary  till 
then.  Now  he  looked  and  she  felt  it  was  not  only  he  that 
was  asking  her  what  she  would  do,  but  the  voices  that  had 
been  calling  to  her  all  the  night,  lifting  themselves  to  warn 
yet  urge  her  on.  She  knew  as  her  feet  began  to  move  upon 
the  floor  it  was  into  flames  and  the  torture  of  pain  they 
were  taking  her  and  when  she  looked  up  to  find  his  eyes 
upon  her  still,  it  brought  her  no  astonishment  when  she  saw 
him  leave  where  he  was  standing  and  come  down  the  room 
to  her  side.  It  seemed  they  both  had  known  it  would  be 
so  as  soon  as  the  blind  man  had  begun  to  play. 

With  a  fainting  gesture  of  compliance,  she  let  him  put 
his  arm  about  her  and  held  him  droopingly  to  move  with  her 
as  she  moved  to  the  sound  of  the  fiddle  that  might  have  been 
playing  as  it  had  played  to  the  blind  man  in  the  height  of 
the  hills,  so  far  away  did  it  sound  to  both  of  them. 


THE  MIRACLE  183 

Once  they  crossed  the  floor  and  then  she  felt  her  head 
leaning  forward  against  him.  Sweet  noises  had  come  into 
her  ears,  that  were  not  the  fiddler's  tune,  but  like  the  song 
of  a  voice  other  than  her  own  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy.  And 
always  as  she  leant  nearer,  she  knew  his  head  was  lowering  to 
meet  hers.  She  looked  up.  A  faint  wind  that  was  cold  out  of 
another  world  blew  over  her  eyelids.  She  saw  his  eyes  that 
seemed  to  be  taking  her  own  into  them.  Then  she  knew  that 
what  would  happen  was  more  than  she  could  bear  to  see. 
Her  eyes  closed  as  his  lips  came  nearer  and  leant  upon  her 
own.  It  seemed  to  her  then  no  more  than  that  she  just 
went  away,  out  of  that  kitchen  where  they  were,  out  of 
the  world  itself,  to  where  there  was  nothing  but  a  darkness. 
A  moment  she  saw  him  and  then  she  could  see  him  no 
more.  The  blind  man  was  still  playing  his  fiddle  with  his 
feet  swinging  and  his  heels  clacking  as  Mary  Kirwan  slipped 
with  her  weight  out  of  Father  Costello's  arms. 

When  James  Kirwan  returned  he  found  them  patting  her 
hands  and  sprinkling  her  face  with  water  from  the  earthen- 
ware jug  that  stood  always  in  a  corner  in  the  coolest  part 
of  the  room. 


XIII 

MRS.  SHEEHAN  happened  to  be  in  the  kitchen 
premises  at  Killanardrish  that  Friday  morning  when 
the  bell  rang.  The  kitchen  was  her  sanctuary. 
Every  other  room  in  the  house,  except  that  expressly  occu- 
pied by  the  Parish  Priest,  was  as  a  tower  to  her  upon  the 
battlements.  From  all  quarters  she  could  watch  those  who 
approached  the  castle  where  she  kept  her  charge.  It  was 
in  her  judgment  and  discretion  alone  to  raise  the  portcullis 
of  that  hall  door  and  give  admission  to  those  who  wished  to 
see  her  master. 

From  his  room  overlooking  the  fields  sloping  down  to 
the  sea,  Father  Roche  could  neither  hear  the  bell  nor  was 
he  likely,  from  that  direction,  to  see  any  one  approaching  the 
house.  Once  in  Killanardrish  he  was  sequestered  from  the 
outside  world  and  like  a  sentinel,  never  sleeping  at  her  post, 
though  not  always  upon  the  ramparts,  Mrs.  Sheehan  kept 
watch  over  her  lord. 

It  was  always  a  cause  of  annoyance  to  her  when  the 
bell  rang  while  she  was  in  the  kitchen.  From  the  kitchen, 
which  looked  out  into  an  enclosed  backyard,  she  could  see 
nothing.  It  was  still  more  aggravating  that  from  no  window 
in  the  front  of  the  house — unless  indeed  she  opened  one 
and  looked  out — could  she  see  who  was  standing  at  the  front 
door.  Some  vein  of  caution  and  inherent  secretiveness  in 
her  nature  had  always  rebelled  against  such  a  measure  as 
this.  She  never  wished  to  appear  unready  for  these  attacks 
upon  her  master's  privacy. 

Filled  with  suspicion  and  shod  in  slippers  that  made  no 

184 


THE  MIRACLE  185 

sound,  she  approached  the  door  in  that  chill  and  lofty  hall. 
Not  until  her  fingers,  accustomed  to  silence,  were  fully  pre- 
pared upon  the  handle,  did  she  turn  it  and  open  the  door, 
not  with  violence  but  always  so  suddenly  that  the  visitor 
outside  upon  the  step  was  always  unprepared. 

She  took  a  secret,  acid  pleasure  in  the  sight  of  the  invari- 
able surprise  that  appeared  upon  their  faces.  She  felt  that 
the  advantage  of  their  silent  approach  was  then  lost  to  them 
and  that  her  own  position  as  guardian  was  still  secure. 

There  was  a  sharp  resentment  in  her  mind  that  morning 
when  she  opened  the  door  in  this  manner  and  was  con- 
fronted by  the  back  of  Father  Costello  in  which  there  was 
no  symptom  of  surprise  or  registration  of  any  feeling  what- 
soever. He  turned  slowly  and  with  a  stare  that  was  in  his 
eyes,  making  her  feel  as  though  she  scarcely  existed  at  all, 
he  asked  her  if  Father  Roche  were  in  the  house. 

"He's  in  the  house,"  she  replied. 

"I  want  to  see  him." 

"I  dunno  whether  'tis  at  his  meditations  he  is.  There'd 
be  sometimes  he'd  be  readin  his  Breviary  now." 

"Does  he  mind  you  coming  into  the  room  to  him?" 

A  smile  of  any  nature  was  not  in  the  gamut  of  expressions 
peculiar  to  Mrs.  Sheehan's  face.  What  might  have  been  a 
smile  of  superiority  in  another  twisted  itself  in  her  features 
then. 

"Shure,  he  doesn't  mind  meself,  anny  time,"  she  said. 

"Then  go  and  tell  him  I  want  to  speak  to  him." 

She  had  never  felt  herself  mastered  before  and  it  was 
not  so  much  Father  Costello  himself,  but  something  as  it 
were  about  and  beyond  him  that  compelled  her  without 
another  word  to  do  as  she  was  bid. 

The  old  man  was  sitting  in  the  same  position,  in  the  same 
chair,  in  which  he  had  talked  to  Fennel,  as  Father  Costello 
was  ushered  into  the  high-ceilinged  room. 


186  THE  MIRACLE 

With  all  the  soulless  drought  and  jealous  acidity  of  her 
nature,  Mrs.  Sheehan  had  never  felt  the  temptation  of  lis- 
tening at  a  door  in  her  life.  For  some  reason,  utterly  inex- 
plicable to  herself,  she  felt  it  then.  As  she  always  did,  she 
had  closed  the  door  so  quietly.  She  heard  the  noiselessness 
of  her  slippered  feet  as  she  walked  away.  They  would 
never  know  if  she  turned  back  and,  with  the  service  of  eye 
and  ear  at  the  keyhole,  kept  watch  and  listened. 

The  sudden  assault  of  the  temptation  shook  her  in  fear 
of  herself.  She  had  never  feared  herself  before.  Blood 
she  had  never  felt  in  her  veins  rushed  astoundingly  with  a 
flame  into  her  cheeks.  She  almost  ran  to  the  kitchen.  She 
was  plucking  a  fowl  for  Father  Roche's  dinner.  Each 
feather  she  pulled  out  she  found  to  be  a  pain  in  herself  and 
snatched  at  it  viciously  to  make  the  hurt  the  more. 

Father  Costello  came  down  the  room  into  the  light  of  the 
window  and  stood  black  against  the  fields  and  the  sea  as 
the  old  man  looked  up. 

"If  there's  trouble  in  Ardnashiela,"  said  he,  "don't  play 
with  yeer  words  on  it,  but  have  it  right  out.  They're  a 
drinkin'  lot,  and  there's  not  one  man  wouldn't  cut  the  throat 
of  another  if  'twas  a  bit  of  land  he  wanted  for  himself." 

"Well— I  don't  find  them  like  that,"  said  Father  Costello. 

"Don't  ye !    Is  it  four  months  ye've  been  there  ?" 

"It  is— not  quite." 

"I've  been  Parish  Priest  and  in  this  house  twenty-five 
years.  And  I'll  die  in  it,  if  Mrs.  Sheehan'll  let  me.  Four 
years  ago  there  was  a  farmer  near  Grange  had  a  man  come 
behind  his  back,  biddin'  privately  for  a  bit  of  land  the 
farmer  wanted  to  get  in  the  open  market.  Did  ye  hear  at  all 
what  he  did?" 

Father  Costello  shook  his  head. 

"He  waited  for  him  behind  a  hedge  with  the  gun  he  had 
shootin'  rabbits  and  when  the  man  came  along  the  road,  up 


THE  MIRACLE  18 

stands  me  fine  fella  and  empties  the  shot  out  of  his  gu 
into  his  face  the  way  it  looked  like  a  sieve  with  his  blooi 
pourin'  out  of  the  holes  in  it.    Ye  didn't  hear  that?" 

"I  did  not." 

"Ye've  only  been  four  months  in  the  place.  Did  ye  hear 
tell  the  way  they  burnt  a  woman  in  Kilkenny  for  a  witch?" 

"I  heard  that  long  ago  when  I  was  a  young  boy." 

"D'ye  know  they'll  cut  the  horns  off  of  the  cows  the 
way  they'd  be  bleedin'  to  death  and  the  tits  off  their  udders 
for  fear  the  man  that  owned  them  might  be  gettin'  milk  to 
put  in  his  mouth?" 

"I  have— I've  heard  that." 

"Well — now  let  ye  be  tellin'  me  in  plain  words  the  trouble 
there  is  in  Ardnashiela." 

"There's  no  trouble  like  that." 

"The  Lord  be  thanked !  They're  gettin  a  civilised  lot 
these  last  four  months.  What  is  it  so?" 

The  old  man's  eyebrows  pricked  out  like  brushes  in  a 
shield  over  his  pale  eyes,  as  he  looked  up  at  his  curate. 

"I  want  ye  to  let  me  go  away  for  a  few  days — a  week 
or  so — just  for  a  little  while." 

Father  Roche  closened  the  scrutiny  in  his  eyes. 

"Is  it  the  way  time's  got  to  seem  like  a  piece  of  elastic 
to  ye?  Shure,  if  ye  can  stretch  a  few  days  into  a  week  or 
so,  God  knows  what  it'll  be  when  it  becomes  a  little  while." 

"  'Tis  the  way  I  don't  know  quite  how  long  I  want  to 
be  away.  It's  ill  I'm  feelin'."  His  voice  was  threatening 
with  the  note  of  desperation.  "It's  no  good  me  comin'  back 
till  I'm  well  again  and  can  go  on  with  me  duties.  I  can't  do 
them  as  I'm  feelin'  now." 

He  stood  looking  out  of  the  window,  down  the  fields  and 
over  the  sea  and  through  all  the  despair  that  was  in  him  he 
could  feel  the  mind  of  the  Parish  Priest  about  his  own  mind 


188  THE  MIRACLE 

like  a  dog  blindly  sniffing  and  scenting  for  a  trail  that  had 
gone  from  it. 

"There  are  two  good  doctors  in  Doonvarna,"  said  Father 
Roche  presently,  "though  please  God  I'll  die  without  the 
need  of  'em — if  Mrs.  Sheehan'll  let  me." 

"A  doctor  couldn't  do  me  any  good." 

"Why  not?" 

"It's  a  change  I  want." 

"From  what?" 

"Faith  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  this  place  is  lonely.  It's 
oppressing  me.  I  feel  desperately  depressed  sometimes." 

"Ye've  been  here  four  months  ?" 

"Oh,  sure  I  know  that  sounds  no  time  at  all  to  be  feeling 
the  weight  of  a  place  on  you." 

"Twenty-five  years  is  longer,"  said  Father  Roche. 

"Ah,  but  surely  you  must  have  felt  the  desolation  of  it  at 
first." 

"I  did." 

"Well — didn't  you  feel  you  wanted  to  get  away?" 

"From  the  place?" 

"Shure,  what  else?" 

"Yirra,  I  might  have  felt  I  wanted  to  get  away  from 
meself." 

In  the  silence  that  came  between  them  then,  Father  Cos- 
tello  could  feel  the  pale  eyes  watching  behind  him. 

"  'Tis  not  places  or  people,"  Father  Roche  went  on  pres- 
ently in  a  slow  voice,  "would  be  makin'  this  or  that  in  a  man's 
life,  but  the  way  himself  'ud  be  lookin'  at  'em.  Glory  be  to 
God,  sure  I've  come  that  way  meself.  I  can  look  at  nothin' 
at  all  and  if  a  circus  was  to  come  into  that  field  there  now, 
I  dunno  would  I  see  was  it  elephants  or  camels  they  had  to  be 
drawin'  the  cars." 

Father  Costello  turned  round  on  him,  keeping,  but  no 
more,  the  cry  of  desperation  out  of  his  voice. 


THE  MIRACLE  189 

"What  d'ye  mean  by  all  this?"  he  asked.  "Shure,  I  can't 
understand  you.  Will  you  give  me  leave  to  go  away  or  won't 
you?  I  know  it's  heaping  work  on  your  shoulders  but  you 
must  believe  me  or  not,  I  wouldn't  ask  if  I  didn't  want." 

For  a  long  measure  of  time  they  stood  looking  far  into 
each  other's  eyes.  There  was  no  fear  in  Father  Costello's 
of  the  pointed  scrutiny  in  every  expression  on  Father  Roche's 
face.  He  opposed  and  held  it  out  with  all  the  despairing  in 
his  own. 

When  the  Parish  Priest  had  looked  and  looked  and  seen  no 
more  than  the  full  years  of  his  life  had  given  him  a  shrewd- 
ness of,  he  turned  with  a  glance  over  his  shoulder. 

"Would  ye  like  to  turn  the  key  in  that  door,"  said  he 
quietly,  "and  make  yeer  confession  here  in  the  room?" 

A  thousand  times  the  heart  of  the  priest  in  Father  Cos- 
tello  could  have  cried*  out  in  his  gratitude  for  that.  It 
would  cleanse  his  soul  he  felt  to  be  smirched  with  all  the 
thoughts  his  mind  had  flung  before  it  since  the  night  before. 
But  something  that  was  instinctive  man  in  him  rose  uppermost 
to  keep  his  love  and  the  passion  of  it  a  secret  and  a  sacred 
thing  in  him  till  of  himself  he  could  burn  it  out  of  his  heart. 

"I  would  not,"  he  said  and  said  it  so  quietly  and  with 
such  conviction  in  his  voice,  that  the  old  priest  asked  no  more. 

With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  and  a  meeting  together  of 
the  tips  of  all  his  fingers,  he  looked  up  at  his  curate. 

"Ye  can  go  to-morrow,"  said  he,  "I'm  not  stoppin'  ye. 
But  mind  ye,  'tis  more  afraid  ye'll  be  to  come  back.  No- 
no—go  to-morrow.  If  ye  can't  meet  fear— ye  can't  meet 
God  on  the  last  day," 


XIV 

IN  a  bewilderment,  leaving  nothing  in  her  consciousness 
but  dull  pain,  Mary  had  lived  through  that  night  and 
passed  into  the  next  day.  It  had  been  a  mercy  to  her 
if  her  fainting  had  held  her  in  the  place  of  her  darkness 
till  the  next  morning,  but  before  the  priest  had  left,  they 
had  brought  her  round.  She  lay  all  night  with  hot  eyes 
staring  and  waiting  for  the  dawn,  her  body  shaken  with 
sudden  gusts  of  trembling,  her  voice  sometimes  whispering 
a  cry — "Oh — oh — "  the  inarticulate  voice  of  her  pain.  * 

In  the  morning  she  rose  early  to  her  work.  The  cows 
were  milked  betimes.  Kirwan  looked  at  her  once  with  cal- 
culating eyes.  She  was  pale  as  a  shroud.  But  she  was 
always  pale.  Women  were  unaccountable  cattle.  The  danc- 
ing had  excited  her.  It  was  that  way  she  had  fainted.  If 
she  could  get  up  early  to  her  work,  when,  from  all  he  had 
seen  of  his  wife,  women  were  like  animals  the  way  they 
loved  their  beds,  there  could  be  little  that  was  wrong  with 
her.  He  did  not  look  again. 

All  that  day,  she  moved  from  one  duty  to  another  absorbed 
and  silent.  When  her  mother  heard  what  had  happened  the 
night  before,  she  asked  her  why  she  had  fainted. 

"Shure,  I  dunno,"  said  Mary. 

"There's  never  a  woman  does,"  Mrs.  Kirwan  replied. 
"Wisha,  if  she  did  maybe  she'd  know  the  way  to  be  healin' 
it." 

Alternately  Mary  was  hoping  that  Fennel  would  not  come 
to  see  her  that  day — then  that  he  would.  Even  when  she 
heard  the  iron  gate  swing  that  evening  at  sunset  and  saw 

190 


THE  MIRACLE  191 

him  walking  up  the  cobbled  path  to  the  door  of  the  house, 
she  did  not  know  whether  she  was  grateful  or  not  for  his 
coming.  It  must  have  been  grateful  she  was,  for,  watching 
him  there  from  one  of  the  sheds  in  the  yard,  she  called  to 
him.  He  turned  with  an  eager  movement  and  there  was 
joy  in  his  face  as  he  crossed  the  yard  and  went  into  the 
shed  to  her. 

If  he  was  to  hear  about  her  fainting  the  night  before, 
it  was  not  herself  was  going  to  tell  him.  She  stood,  just 
with  her  arms  at  her  side  and,  always  in  gratitude  for  his 
gentleness  but  in  greater  pity  for  him  now  because  of  her 
own  pain,  she  had  a  smile  on  her  lips  to  greet  him  with. 

It  was  the  greatest  tenderness  she  felt  for  him  that  in 
his  timidity  and  the  simple  emotions  that  ruled  his  mind, 
he  had  never  sought  to  embrace  her  yet.  Knowing  now 
what  passion  was,  she  knew  that  somewhere  it  must  exist 
in  him.  He  was  a  man.  It  was  therefore  with  an  intuitive 
sense  she  felt  the  presence  of  the  wonder  he  must  have  for 
her.  A  year,  a  few  months  before,  she  might  have  given 
out  of  her  heart  to  the  strangeness  and  beauty  of  that  and 
marvelled  at  rinding  it  in  a  man  of  her  class.  It  would 
indeed  have  been  a  revelation  to  her.  But  a  greater  revela- 
tion had  begun  to  unveil  itself  in  the  depths  of  her  nature 
before  ever  she  had  met  the  fisherman.  And  now  she  knew 
wonder  that  was  not  timid  as  in  a  man  kneeling  before  the 
altar  of  the  Mother  of  God,  but  fierce  and  subjugating  with 
rushing  sounds  of  pain  and  sweeping  visions  of  joy. 

She  smiled  at  him.  Even  she  held  out  her  hand.  There 
was  just  one  thing  the  oppressive  fear  that  was  in  her  wanted 
to  ask  him.  She  said  it  then  as  he  took  her  hand  and  before 
he  could  speak. 

"When  is  it  we're  goin'  to  be  married?" 

His  eyes  could  do  no  more  than  stare  back  at  hers.    Not 


192  THE  MIRACLE 

only  had   she  become  willing.     She   was  eager   now.     It 
was  not  too  deaf  he  was  to  hear  that  in  her  voice. 

"What  makes  ye  so  kind  to  me?"  he  asked,  with  words 
he  found  difficult  to  urge  from  his  throat  to  the  clear  sound 
of  them  on  his  lips. 

"  "Pis  not  kind  I  am !"  she  cried  then. 

He  did  not  understand. 

'  'Tis  the  greatest  kindness  ever  I  had  in  me  life.  Haven't 
I  been  the  way  of  a  net  and  it  drifting  empty  in  the  water 
and  isn't  it  full  now  out  of  the  deep  places  of  the  seas  and 
I  drawin'  it  into  meself  with  the  power  I'd  have  in  me  arms  ?" 

This  was  the  simple  native  poetry  in  him,  strangely  vivid 
with  all  their  coarseness  and  cruelty  in  them  all.  By  the 
hand  he  held,  he  drew  her  gently  towards  him  as  he  said  it. 

"We'll  be  married,"  he  muttered,  "as  soon  as  the  priest 
is  ready  for  us,"  and  then  stammering  in  his  shyness,  he 
asked  her  was  it  the  way  she  could  kiss  him,  for  it  was  him- 
self had  never  felt  the  lips  of  a  woman  in  his  life. 

In  a  still  obedience  to  his  asking,  she  turned  her  face 
upwards  and  he  kissed  her,  but  it  was  not  his  kiss  she  felt. 

This  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  kissed  a  woman.  He 
could  not  have  believed  how  strange  it  was.  Her  lips 
were  cold  as  a  stone  you'd  pick  out  of  the  water  and  she 
seemed  to  have  no  breath. 


XV 

THERE  was  one  determination  Mary  had  firmly  made. 
She  would  not  go  near  Ardnashiela  again  until  the 
day  she  was  to  be  married.     In  some  orthodox  and 
conventional  concept  of  thought,  she  believed  this  ceremony 
was  to  save  her  from  the  danger  that  threatened  from  every 
corner  of  her  mind. 

The  sense  of  desecration  and  profanity  there  had  once 
seemed  to  be  about  her  because  Father  Costello  was  a  priest, 
compelled  no  longer  with  reality.  That  moment  when  his  arm 
was  around  her  and  his  lips  had  left  his  breath  on  her 
lips,  there  was  no  thought  that  was  unholy  or  sacreligious  in 
her  mind.  She  had  felt  no  horror  at  what  had  happened. 
She  had  felt  no  shame  when  they  had  brought  her  round 
and  she  remembered  it  all  to  the  slightest  detail  of  sensation. 
It  must  not  be.  It  could  not  be.  But  she  had  no  shame 
in  her  now.  In  all  the  chill  bleakness  of  her  life,  there 
were  moments  of  exultant  joy  in  that  kiss  he  had  given 
that  warmed  her.  She  knew  well  how  barren  her  life  was 
to  be,  yet  the  remembrance  of  that  one  moment  alone  seemed 
to  give  her  strength  to  face  it  all.  She  had  no  regret  of  it — 
no  remorse.  In  a  passionate  defiance  of  all  subservient 
obedience  to  the  teaching  of  the  Church,  she  swore  to 
herself  she  would  never  confess  it.  It  was  hers — hers  and 
his — and  as  long  as  she  breathed  or  had  a  tongue  to  speak 
with,  the  secret  of  it  would  be  a  joy  to  keep. 

But  until  she  was  married,  she  dared   go   no  more  to 
Ardnashiela.     Apart  from  this,  which  no  longer  she  felt 

193 


194  THE  MIRACLE 

to  be  a  sin,  it  would  have  been  her  duty  to  go  in  to  Confession 
the  next  day.  She  would  not  go. 

Instead,  that  evening,  when  the  milking  was  finished,  the 
cream  skimmed  from  the  pans  in  the  dairy  and  the  buckets 
cleaned,  she  crossed  the  fields  to  the  Doonvarna  road  because 
it  had  become  a  greater  pairr  to  her  to  stay  in  the  house. 
All  through  the  warm  and  peaty  atmosphere  in  that  kitchen, 
she  could  still  hear  the  notes  of  the  fiddle  playing  and  the 
sound  of  the  priest's  voice  when  he  spoke ;  she  could  see  that 
last  look  his  eyes  had  before  she  had  gone  away  into  the 
darkness,  she  could  feel  the  quick  heat  of  his  breath  on  her 
lips  that  had  carried  her  into  that  world  beyond  the  imme- 
diate perception  of  pain. 

It  was  nine  miles  to  Doonvarna.  Two  miles  beyond  Ard- 
nashiela  Bay,  the  road,  doubly  rutted  with  lines  of  the  cart 
tracks  and  the  wheel  marks  of  the  donkey  butts,  led  through 
the  lonely  marsh-land  of  the  bogs.  There  in  the  Spring, 
the  muffled  drum  of  the  snipe  sounded  often  to  those  who 
did  not  know  the  ways  of  birds,  like  the  drums  of  the  faerie 
armies  marching  out  to  battle  in  the  glens  of  the  hills  of 
Doon.  All  the  year  and  long  through  the  winter  nights, 
the  curlews  called  their  sharp  cries  of  fear,  their  quick  cries 
of  warning  and  that  long,  low  moaning  whistle  of  their 
content. 

She  passed  the  road  that  forks  to  Killanardrish.  Without 
a  thought  of  how  far  she  was  going  or  any  consideration 
of  time,  she  went  on  across  the  peat  bog  where  the  only 
signs  of  human  life  were  the  solitary  stacks  of  peat  to  show 
where  the  hands  of  men  had  been  and  the  sharp  incisions 
in  the  bog  itself  where  pools  of  black,  brown  water  trapped 
the  last  lights  of  the  fallen  sun  and  delayed  them  there  in 
smears  of  purple,  of  orange  and  of  gold. 

There  was  nothing  of  any  beauty  that  she  saw  over  those 
dark  wastes  of  land  in  the  still  lights  of  evening.  Beyond 


THE  MIRACLE  195 

and  before  her,  the  grey  hills  of  Doon  called  her  to  them 
like  a  voice  calling. 

It  is  a  sign  of  madness,  they  say,  that  wish  to  be  alone. 
Before  the  fatal  rabies  siezes  upon  its  victim,  a  dog  will 
hide  away  in  dark  places  and  wander  upon  far,  solitary 
journeys.  If  that  is  so,  then  it  was  love  madness  that  was 
calling  Mary  Kirwan  up  into  the  hills.  She  paid  no  hee.d  to 
the  creeping  grey  lights  that  followed  the  warm  lights  and 
mingled  with  them  in  purple  across  the  sky.  It  was  the 
long  twilight  of  evening  that  was  closing  around  her  as  she 
left  the  marsh  land  and  the  rising  shadows  of  the  hills  began 
to  deepen  the  pale  thread  of  the  road.  None  of  these  signs 
of  the  passage  of  time  were  apparent  to  her.  There  was 
night  already  in  her  heart.  It  could  not  well  grow  darker 
there. 

Through  that  pass  of  the  hills,  the  road  wound  upwards 
for  a  mile  and  more  before,  mounting  the  lowest  crest,  it 
began  to  descend  in  tortuous  twistings  to  Doonvarna  and 
the  sea  again.  It  was  known  always  as  the  Gap.  There  is 
scarcely  a  word  having  a  lonelier  sound  to  it  than  that  in  all 
of  Ireland. 

Once  there  had  been  a  man  or  a  woman  maybe,  who  had 
faced  the  solitariness  of  night  and  day  between  the  gloom 
of  those  crags  and  fallen  boulders  where  the  sun  never  shines 
for  more  than  a  short  hour.  They  may  have  faced  it  out 
to  the  end.  Like  a  waiting  beast  it  may  have  leapt  upon 
them  in  a  dark  night  before  the  end  had  come.  All  that 
remained  in  desolate  vision  of  their  life  there  were  the 
broken  four  walls  of  the  cabin  still  standing  away  from  the 
roadside.  The  thatch  was  nearly  rotten  through.  It  clung 
in  places  to  the  remaining  rafters  as  rags  hang  upon  the  bones 
of  an  old  woman  in  whom  all  life  is  dead  and  only  death  alive. 

With  no  sense  of  the  forsaken  tragedy  of  its  solitude,  Mary 
passed  it  by  with  a  look  that  saw  no  more  than  what  all 


196  THE  MIRACLE 

can  see  upon  any  road  in  Ireland.  It  roused  no  drifting 
speculation  in  her.  She  had  no  picture  in  her  mind  of  those 
who  had  struggled  against  life  there,  had  failed  and  gone 
away.  There  was  little  in  the  sight  of  those  crumbling 
walls,  the  sightless  windows  and  the  gaping  black  mouth 
where  the  door  had  hung  that  was  so  different  or  strange 
to  life  as  she  knew  it  then  acutely  in  herself.  Up  the 
hill  of  the  road  she  walked  on  into  the  first  grey  promise 
of  the  night  that  was  gathering  out  of  the  sea  beyond 
Doonvarna. 

Before  she  reached  the  crest  of  the  Gap,  four  miles  away 
then  from  Ardnashiela,  a  mist  rolled  over  the  hills  in  grey 
sheets  of  suspended  moisture  and  tumbled  down  in  thick,, 
^'et,  sullen  layers  into  the  valley  of  the  pass. 

She  had  no  time  to  reckon  upon  the  result  of  its  coming. 
In  a  few  moments  it  was  close  around  her,  shutting  her 
in  and  bringing  sounds  to  her  ears  she  had  not  heard  before 
in  the  clear  light.  In  these  mists  that  came  up  often  from 
the  sea,*people  had  been  lost  all  night  in  the  hills.  She  felt 
no  fear  because  of  that.  There  was  the  road.  She  had 
only  to  keep  to  it  and  she  could  not  lose  her  way.  It  did 
no  more  than  bring  her  to  a  consciousness  of  how  far  she 
had  come  and  that  it  would  be  well  into  the  night  before  she 
could  hope  to  get  home. 

That  mattered  little.  There  was  enough  dull  sanity  of 
purpose  in  her  to  know  that  sometime  or  another  she  must 
get  back.  Without  pause  to  calculate  how  long  it  would  take 
her  in  the  uncertainty  of  that  light,  she  turned  at  once  and 
set  her  face  back  towards  Ardnashiela.  For  no  more  than 
a  few  yards  before  her  the  road  lay  at  her  feet.  After  that  it 
ended  in  the  mist  and  might  have  been  the  sharp  edge  of  an 
abyss.  So  intense  the  silence  was  about  her,  that  when  a 
stone  tumbled  down  the  side  of  the  hills,  she  stood  listening 
to  the  sharp  sounds  of  it  till  it  lay  still. 


THE  MIRACLE  197 

Perhaps  it  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  she  had  walked  with 
watchful  steps  when  a  low  wind  came  up,  companion  of  the 
mist.  It  stole  with  soft  murmurs  by  her  ears,  hurrying  the 
grey  layers  of  moisture  past  her  as  she  walked.  They  came 
after  a  time  to  be  like  ghosts  to  the  quickening  of  her 
imagination — ghosts  hastening  by  her,  heedless  of  her  as  she 
walked,  but  brushing  their  cold  scarves  against  her  face  and 
making  almost  a  whisper  in  the  air  as  they  went,  so  bodily 
their  shapes  began  to  be.  Each  one  seemed  to  bring  the 
faint  burden  of  a  fear  in  its  arms  as  it  swept  by.  More  and 
more  as  she  walked  they  left  a  sense  of  fear  in  her  heart 
when  they  were  gone. 

She  knew  at  last  she  was  afraid  and  that  it  was  death,  not 
an  ordinary  death,  she  was  beginning  to  fear,  but  death 
coming  to  her  there  alone  and  holding  its  cold  fingers  vio- 
lently at  her  throat.  It  pictured  itself  at  last  in  a  concrete 
vision  in  her  mind.  She  saw  Shaughnessy,  the  butcher,  kill- 
ing his  sheep  in  the  solitude  of  the  room,  when  the  door  was 
closed  upon  him  in  that  cottage  of  his  in  Ardnashiela.  She 
saw  him  wrestling  with  it,  wearing  the  grim  smile  she  always 
knew  must  be  on  his  face.  Now,  as  she  walked  along  the 
road,  she  saw  herself  like  that  sheep,  struggling,  and  if  there 
could  only  have  been  the  warmness  of  her  blood  flowing, 
she  would  not  have  felt  death  so  cold  or  so  alone.  But 
though  she  knew  it  was  with  a  knife,  a  sharp,  pointed  knife, 
Shaughnessy  stabbed  the  necks  of  the  sheep  he  killed,  it 
was  not  in  that  manner  she  saw  death  then.  There  was 
chill  in  it  and  violence  as  when  in  drowning  the  body  must 
struggle  and  fight  in  the  cold  water.  And  permeated  through 
all  this  vision  was  the  sense  of  the  inevitable  sacrifice,  the 
powerless  beast  and  she,  no  less,  herself,  both  dedicated 
sacrament  to  the  needs  of  life. 

She  began  to  feel  she  was  fighting  against  death  there  in 
the  clinging  darkness  of  that  mist.     Any  moment  she  be- 


198  THE  MIRACLE 

lieved  it  might  leap  in  some  form  upon  her  from  the  road- 
side. There  seemed  no  reason  at  all  to  be  quickening  her 
steps,  for  the  sense  of  it  was  always  there  as  the  ghosts 
shuffled  by  her,  yet  she  was  breaking  now  almost  into  a  run. 
The  very  sound  of  her  feet  as  they  grew  to  haste,  clattered 
on  the  road  as  though  they  were  clattering  against  her 
brain.  Terror  was  pursuing  her  now,  swift  terror,  more 
relentless  than  fear,  and  faster  than  her  feet  could  run. 

She  knew  at  last  there  were  screams  hiding  in  her  voice — 
demons  of  her  fear  which,  once  they  thrust  their  way  be- 
tween her  lips,  would  make  the  cries  of  madness  and  then 
the  end.  The  death  that  was  terrifying  would  be  upon  her. 
She  fought  to  keep  them  back.  If  she  kept  them  back  she 
believed  she  could  defy  that  death,  outrun  it  and  escape. 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  her  lips  they  came  and  faster  and 
faster  as  she  ran,  the  ghosts  of  the  mists  slipped  by,  when 
suddenly  out  of  the  deepening  darkness,  she  heard  a  sound. 
There  was  no  judging  in  that  demented  world  she  was  mov- 
ing in  what  sound  it  was.  With  eyes  staring  and  lips  open, 
she  stood,  feet  set  apart,  waiting  on  the  road  as  it  came 
towards  her.  It  grew,  like  a  giant  out  of  the  mist.  In 
a  solid  volume  of  real  substance  it  heaped  itself  upon  her 
out  of  the  rushing  shapes  of  the  ghosts. 

It  was  a  man.  He  was  riding  a  bicycle.  The  cries  hung, 
held  on  her  lips.  There  was  a  real  world.  She  stood  and 
laughed. 

Scarcely  an  instant's  laughter  it  was.  He  had  stumbled 
more  than  dismounted  from  his  bicycle.  When  she  looked 
with  sight  that  was  concentrated  on  more  than  the  mere 
presence  of  him  come  there  out  of  the  mist,  it  was  Father 
Costello  she  saw.  She  stood  trembling  with  the  fear  she  had 
had,  the  release  of  it  and  its  re-action  and  now  with  the 
emotion  of  awe  at  her  swift  thought  that  in  all  her  efforts 
to  escape  there  was  none. 


THE  MIRACLE  199 

He  stared  at  her,  saying  no  more  than  her  name.  It 
made  no  impression  upon  either  of  them  that  it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  used  it  without  her  surname.  Then,  perhaps 
because  of  the  hill  on  which  they  were  standing  and  the 
wetness  of  the  handles  of  his  machine  as  he  held  it,  the 
wheel  of  his  bicycle  turned.  He  lost  its  balance.  It  fell  over 
sideways  on  the  stones.  He  did  not  try  to  save  it.  They 
scarcely  noticed  its  clattering  down  but,  as  if  their  eyes 
were  locked,  gazed  at  each  other  until  the  unnatural  fate  it 
seemed  to  be  was  gradually  superimposed  by  reality. 

"What's  brought  you  out  here?"  he  said  under  his  breath. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No  reason  at  all?" 

"Just  I  wanted  to  be  alone.  I — I  couldn't  stop  in  the 
house  the  way  I  was." 

"What  way?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"What  way?" 

"After  last  Thursda'  night." 

"So  you  came  out  here !  No  reason !  Just  to  be  alone ! — 
God  Almighty !" 

They  were  silent.  He  looked  down  at  his  bicycle  lying 
on  the  road  but  made  no  movement  to  pick  it  up.  Her 
head  had  turned  with  his.  With  his  it  turned  back.  Their 
eyes  met  again. 

"What  was  it  brought  yeerself  out  here?"  she  whispered. 

"I'm  going  away." 

She  caught  her  breath. 

"I'm  going  to  Doonvarna.  There's  an  early  train  to 
Dublin  in  the  morning.  I  just  waited  to  hear  confession  to 
save  Father  Roche  the  trouble  of  coming  in  to  Ardnashiela 
and  then  I  came  away." 

"Why  are  ye  goin'  away  ?" 

She  had  not  wanted  to  see  him  until  she  was  married, 


200  THE  MIRACLE 

yet  the  thought  that  he  was  going  away  was  a  desolation. 
He  did  not  answer  until  she  had  asked  him  again. 

"Why  did  you  come  out  here?"  he  asked  in  reply. 

She  bowed  her  head,  lifting  it  the  next  moment  and 
crying  out  in  her  misery  and  despair — 

"  "Tis  meself  has  driven  ye  away !" 

He  shook  his  head  and  declare^  it  was  not  her. 

"  'Tis  not  yourself,  but  me,"  he  said  emphatically.  "You 
didn't  know.  How  could  you  know!  Shure  I  ought  to 
have  known  meself  long  before  that  morning  we  talked  on 
the  cliff.  Perhaps  I  did  know  and  I  hid  it  from  meself, 
because  there  was  always  a  joy  I  had  to  be  talking  to  you." 

He  looked  at  her  and  knew  she  was  trembling  but  thought 
it  was  because  of  the  cold  of  the  mist  as  she  stood  there  in 
those  bitter  wastes  of  the  hills. 

"You're  cold,"  he  said  gently.  "You  should  be  walking 
back  and  there's  three  more  miles  before  you'll  be  home. 
Come  down  the  road  now  and  I'll  be  walking  with  you 
till  you're  out  of  the  gap." 

She  reminded  him  there  was  his  bicycle. 

"It  can  lie  there,"  said  he.  "Shure  there's  no  one  will  be 
coming  this  road  now  to-night." 

"But  ye'll  be  late  yeerself  in  Doonvarna." 

He  said  he  could  not  leave  her  going  alone.  It  pressed 
in  his  mind  that  with  that  mist  she  must  be  getting  back  to 
Ardnashiela,  but  he  could  not  say  good-bye  to  her  then. 
He  could  not  turn  away  and  ride  off  into  the  hills.  It  was 
scarcely  half  a  mile  more  out  of  the  Gap.  Even  then  she 
had  the  lonely  road  across  the  peat  bogs.  Just  that  half 
mile.  It  was  little  enough  if,  as  in  his  heart  it  was  seeming 
then,  he  should  never  come  back  to  Ardnashiela  again.  How 
could  he  come  back  ?  He  would  never  dare  to  meet  her  again 
after  this.  A  secret?  Yes,  they  could  keep  it  a  secret 
perhaps.  But  there  was  something  more  than  mere  secrecy 


THE  MIRACLE  201 

between  them.  Love  was  no  secret.  With  a  persistent 
vigilance  of  self-control,  they  might  be  able  to  hide  it  from 
others.  They  could  not  hide  it  from  themselves.  And  how 
could  the  priest  in  him  live  through  all  that?  He  knew  it 
was  the  last  time  they  would  ever  see  each  other.  He  knew 
well  he  was  never  coming  back.  What  was  just  that  half 
mile  then  to  be  walking  beside  her  ?  A  few  minutes  to  feel 
themselves  near  to  each  other!  That  was  all.  It  seemed 
there  must  be  some  little  pity  God  must  extend  to  those  of 
His  creatures  suffering  as  they  were  suffering  by  no  will 
or  seeking  of  their  own. 

"I'll  walk  back  with  you,"  he  insisted,  "just  till  we  get 
out  of  the  Gap.  The  mist'll  be  drifting  more  there  over 
the  marsh  land.  It's  all  pent  up  here  between  the  hills. 
Why,  it's  wetting  you  through." 

He  touched  the  sleeve  of  her  bodice. 

"You're  drowning  wet,"  said  he. 

This  tenderness  of  solicitude  for  her  welfare  was  all  as 
new  and  strange  to  her  as  love  itself.  That  night  in  the 
kitchen  when  he  had  told  her  why  he  had  come  out  to  the 
threshing  feast  had  bewildered  and  overwhelmed  her.  This 
affected  her  in  the  same  way.  She  looked  up,  in  every  ex- 
pression giving  herself  wholly  over  to  him  in  the  passivity  of 
surrender. 

He  turned  quickly  away.  They  began  walking  down  the 
hill  together,  silent,  because  they  dared  not  speak,  and  with  a 
clear  space  of  the  road  between  them. 

As  the  ruined  cottage  loomed  up  out  of  the  grey  darkness 
the  mist  turned  to  gusts  of  rain.  It  slashed  against  his 
shoulders,  but  he  only  felt  it  whipping  her. 

"Why  on  earth  did  you  come  out  to  this  place?"  he  mut- 
tered, as  though  the  rain  were  all  and  when  he  glanced  at 
her,  he  could  see  the  shawl  clinging  to  her  hair. 

It  seemed  suddenly  then  he  beheld  all  the  helplessness  of 


202  THE  MIRACLE 

her — the  wind  and  rain  driving  her  down  the  road  as  Fate 
was  driving  her  through  life,  as  it  had  driven  her  out  there 
to  the  Gap,  that  day  of  all  days,  that  hour  of  all  hours. 
With  a  sharp  consciousness  of  power  in  himself  created  by 
that  vision  of  her,  he  took  her  arm  and  turned  her  off  the 
road.  In  those  four  walls  of  tumbling  stone  and  beneath 
the  rotting  cover  of  the  thatch,  there  was  sufficient  shelter 
to  protect  her  till  the  lashing  rain  had  passed. 

She  went  with  him  in  a  dumb  obedience.  In  the  masterful 
manner  in  which  he  had  taken  her  arm,  it  had  not  passed 
in  her  thoughts  to  protest,  to  warn  him,  to  urge  their  going 
on.  "  'Til  the  worst  of  this  is  over,"  he  said,  and  she  stepped 
through  the  black  mouth  of  the  door  into  the  shelter  of  the 
walls. 

It  had  been  a  cabin  of  two  rooms.  Both  rafters  and 
thatch  had  been  swept  away  from  that  part  in  which  the 
occupants  had  lived  and  cooked  their  meals.  The  gap  of  the 
chimney,  like  an  old  man's  mouth  with  toothless  gums,  was 
still  black  with  the  smoke  of  the  fires  that  had  burnt  there. 
The  stack  itself  had  fallen  long  ago.  The  stones  that  had 
fallen  inwards  to  the  floor  were  green  and  weathered. 

It  was  over  the  other  room  that  the  rafters  and  thatch 
still  held.  They  swayed  and  muttered  as  the  wind  had  its 
way  with  them,  yet  they  clung  tenaciously  to  the  roof  plate 
and  would  not  leave  go.  Behind  those  walls  of  the  kitchen 
they  were  partly  sheltered  from  the  wind  but  the  rain 
drove  in. 

"You'd  better  go  right  in,"  he  told  her  and,  without  ques- 
tion, she  turned  through  the  narrow  doorway  into  the  semi- 
darkness  beneath  the  broken  thatch. 

He  followed,  still  forgetting  all  but  the  strength  he  felt 
at  the  sight  of  her  helplessness.  Only  two  nights  before 
she  had  dropped  fainting  out  of  his  arms.  The  vision  of  that 
was  lingering  with  him.  He  saw  her  weaker  than  she  was 


THE  MIRACLE  203 

and  himself  with  a  greater  strength  than  the  nature  of  a 
man  can  hope  for.  He  believed  in  mastering  her,  he  was 
mastering  himself.  He  thought,  seeing  her  as  she  stood 
trembling  there,  that  he  could  forget  himself  in  the  presence 
of  her  needs. 

"Take  off  that  shawl  for  a  bit,"  he  said,  "it's  drenched 
with  water.  Here — give  it  to  me." 

She  took  it  off.  He  did  not  look  at  her  as  she  handed  it 
to  him,  but  in  his  ringers  wrung  out  the  drops  of  water 
from  it  and  then  shook  it  out. 

With  that  characteristic  garment  about  her  head  and  hair, 
cutting  down  the  line  of  her  face,  she  was  just  the  peasant 
girl  of  her  class.  Although  he  knew,  he  had  not  reckoned 
what  she  would  look  without  it.  Then,  when  he  saw  her 
with  her  hair  about  her  forehead,  the  full  oval  of  her  face 
revealed,  and  felt  he  was  as  near  to  her  as  when,  to  the  sound 
of  the  blind  man's  fiddle,  she  was  in  his  arms,  a  clear  sight 
of  himself  broke  out  with  a  light  that  blinded  him. 

There  was  no  strength  in  him!  More  than  that,  there 
was  no  weakness  that  was  real  in  her.  Rather  it  was  she 
who  was  strong  with  a  power,  not  of  her  own  exerting,  but 
more  insidious,  more  irresistible  than  that.  As  she  stood 
there,  returning  his  look  and  trembling  with  his  eyes  upon 
her,  there  was  something  in  her  against  which  he  now  rec- 
ognised himself  to  be  powerless.  She  might  conceal  it  in 
silence,  but  it  was  not  hidden  from  him  there.  She  might 
drop  her  eyes  to  the  look  in  his.  It  was  not  hidden  there. 

If  ever  he  had  thought  of  women  who  tempted  men  and 
from  whose  temptations  he  had  not  supposed  he  would  be 
exempt,  it  was  always  in  definite  and  active  ways  he  had 
visioned  them.  Against  such  invitations  to  passion  he  had 
believed  that  always,  in  the  strength  of  his  ideals,  he  would 
be  secure. 

But  this — this  submissive  surrender  of  soul  and  heart  and 


204  THE  MIRACLE 

body — servant  and  slave  to  any  purpose  he  might  choose — 
he  had  left  utterly  out  of  his  estimate  of  the  forces  of  life. 
He  knew  then  as  their  eyes  met  and  hers  fell,  it  was  some- 
thing against  the  pounding  pressure  of  which  ideals  fell  away 
like  water.  Perhaps  he  had  learnt  it  for  one  instant  that 
night  in  the  farm  kitchen.  He  had  not  known  it  until  now. 
The  world  of  all  conscious  right  and  wrong,  of  good  and 
evil,  slipped  away  from  him.  There  had  been  a  space  in  his 
mind  where  there  was  light  falling.  A  shutter  had  been 
swiftly  closed.  He  was  in  darkness — a  darkness  that  radi- 
ated and  breathed  of  her. 

As  if  it  actually  were  a  darkness  in  which  they  were 
standing,  he  stretched  out  for  her  with  his  arms  and  his 
hands  groping.  She  felt  his  fingers  catching  upon  her  shoul- 
ders. As  the  full  clutch  of  his  hands  held  her,  it  seemed 
as  if  she  were  floating  upon  a  swiftly  moving  stream,  that 
quickened  and  quickened  in  the  race  of  its  water,  bearing 
her  onwards  to  the  edge  of  the  torrent  when  the  rush  of  his 
kisses  beat  like  thunder  in  her  ears. 


PART  III 


JAMES  KIRWAN  had  gone  out  of  Ardnashiela  that 
Saturday  evening  for  a  game  of  cards  they  were  hav- 
ing at  the  cottage  of  Kelleher,  the  smith.  It  was  a  mile 
out  of  the  village,  going  West  away  from  Doonvarna,  at 
Cantlin's  Cross,  and  he  was  coming  home  when  the  night 
had  fallen  and  all  the  mist  that  had  blown  up  from  the  sea 
was  gone  in  rain  and  sheets  of  moisture  over  the  land. 

There  were  stars,  flung  in  myriad  points  of  steel  across 
the  sky,  and  beyond,  where  the  sea  lay,  a  late  harvest  moon, 
dilated  with  faint  light  of  flame,  was  cutting  through  the 
band  of  purple  mist  on  the  horizon. 

He  was  in  a  good  humour  because  he  had  won  a  few 
shillings  at  spoil-five,  yet  such  was  his  mood,  that  his  humour 
was  no  joy  to  him.  It  was  Kelleher  who  had  lost  and,  what 
with  the  drink  he  had  taken  and  his  temper  at  losing  the 
shillings  that  were  gone  from  him,  he  had  broken  up  the 
game  and  said  he  would  play  no  more.  They  might  have 
played  another  hour  and  longer  so  that  although  Kirwan 
was  jingling  the  money  he  had  in  his  pocket,  he  was  annoyed 
to  think  it  was  less  than  there  might  have  been,  for  his 
luck  was  in  with  him  and  he  had  known  he  could  not  lose 
that  night. 

In  a  way  to  satisfy  and  prove  to  himself  how  much  the 
fortune  of  the  cards  was  with  him,  he  took  the  pack  he  had 
brought  from  his  pocket.  The  cards  that  Kelleher  had  had 
to  be  playing  with  were  dirty  and  worn  and  marked.  There 
was  no  telling  a  king  from  a  queen  or  a  jack  of  spades 
because  of  the  dirt  that  was  on  them.  It*was  his  own  he  had 

207 


208  THE  MIRACLE 

brought  there  for  them  to  be  using  that  night  and  if  there 
was  the  scratch  of  a  mark  he  knew  on  the  back  of  the 
knave  of  diamonds,  he  used  it  to  no  advantage  unless  he  saw 
it  there  in  the  hands  of  one  of  those  he  was  playing  against. 
And  when  it  was  in  his  own  hand  it  was,  shure,  what  did 
it  matter  how  marked  it  might  be  so  long  as  the  others  had 
no  knowledge  of  it  to  be  using  against  him? 

There  was  little  visibility  that  night  as  he  went  along 
the  road,  but  he  could  just  see  the  faces  of  the  cards  when 
he  took  them  out  in  his  hands.  He  began  shuffling  them 
then  as  he  walked  and  every  moment  cutting  a  card  to  see 
what  it  was.  First  it  was  the  ace  of  hearts  and  then  the  king 
of  diamonds  that  he  cut  and  almost  every  time  it  was  a  card 
of  some  high  value,  so  that  he  knew  the  luck  was  well  in  with 
him.  If  they  had  gone  on  playing  for  another  hour,  it  might 
surely  have  been  a  small  piece  of  gold  he  would  have  brought 
home  with  him  in  his  pocket,  instead  of  those  three  shillings 
rubbing  against  the  copper  pieces  that  he  had. 

About  a  quarter  of  a  mile  outside  Ardnashiela  there  was 
a  pile  of  stones  on  the  grass  waiting  for  any  man  that 
might  be  found  to  be  breaking  them  up  for  the  mending 
of  the  road.  They  had  been  there  two  years  and  more  and 
the  couch  grass,  the  docks  and  ragwort  were  growing  thick 
about  them. 

Kirwan  was  still  shuffling  and  cutting  the  cards  in  his 
hands  when  he  came  to  the  place.  It  was  not  at  the  heap 
of  stones  he  was  looking  at  all  when  the  voice  of  a  man  jerked 
out  of  the  silence  and  stopped  him  where  he  was. 

"How's  the  luck  in  with  ye?"  the  man  said,  as  though  he 
knew  what  it  was  the  farmer  had  in  his  mind  when  he  was 
shuffling  and  cutting  the  cards. 

With  fear  always  ready  to  him  in  darkness  and  lonely 
places,  Kirwan  stared  at  him  with  quick  suspicion.  As  far 
as  he  could  see  in  that  light,  the  man  had  clothes  that  were 


THE  MIRACLE  209 

not  in  rags  on  him  and  if  it  was  a  tinker  he  was,  it  was  a 
strange  thing  for  him  to  be  dressed  like  that. 

"Who  is  it  is  askin'  me  that?"  demanded  Kirwan  with  a 
sharpness  in  his  voice  to  hide  the  fear  he  had. 

"Shure  what's  it  matter  who  another  'ud  be,  if  yeer  luck's 
well  in  with  yeerself?" 

There  was  some  meaning  in  that  if  there  was  not  an 
answer  to  his  question.  It  was  true  enough  the  farmer  little 
cared  who  a  man  was  if  he  could  be  winning  pieces  of  money 
out  of  him  at  cards.  That  answer  seemed  to  satisfy  him.  His 
suspicions  were  gone  as  swiftly  as  they  had  come.  A  slow 
curiosity  took  their  place.  He  drew  a  step  nearer. 

"If  'tis  me  luck  is  in  or  out,"  said  he  with  a  grin  on  his 
lips,  "there's  little  matter  that  could  be  to  yeerself  is  walkin' 
the  roads  the  way  the  stones  themselves  'ud  be  a  rest  to  ye." 

The  man  did  not  move.  There  appeared  to  be  no  offence 
in  him  at  Kirwan's  imputation  that  he  had  no  money  to 
be  playing  with,  but  was  begging  his  way  from  one  door  to 
another. 

"I'd  play  a  game  of  forty-five  with  anny  man,"  said  he. 

Kirwan  drew  nearer  another  step  and  looked  the  more 
closely  at  his  face.  He  was  no  tinker.  Then  what  wa§  he 
doing  there  like  a  man  would  be  worn  out  with  the  hardness 
of  the  roads?  But  the  curiosity  of  the  farmer  had  stayed 
little  longer  than  his  fear.  He  thought  of  his  luck  and  the 
cards  he  had  been  cutting  as  he  came  along  the  road.  He 
thought  of  the  time  he  had  lost  for  his  playing  with  the  hour 
that  Kelleher  had  broken  up  the  game  and  told  them  all 
they  could  go  to  Hell  with  the  cards  they  were  holding 
against  him. 

"I'd  play  ye  a  game  of  forty-five,"  he  said,  "if  ye'd  come 
along  to  the  kitchen  in  me  house  is  beyond  Ardnashiela. 

"  'Tis  not  that  way  I'm  going,"  said  the  man,  "and  'tis 
here  as  well  as  any  place  we  could  be  playin'  now  with  the 


210  THE  MIRACLE 

flat  of  the  stones  to  be  laying  our  cards  on  and  no  heat  of 
any  fire  in  a  room  or  the  lift  of  the  drink  might  be  gettin' 
into  our  heads." 

There  was  a  persuasiveness  in  his  voice.  It  was  without 
realising  till  afterwards  what  was  happening  to  him  that 
Kirwan  fell  under  the  spell  of  it.  His  luck  was  tempting 
him  too  and  there  were  few  men  in  Ardnashiela  that  could 
hold  out  against  him  in  a  game  of  forty-five. 

"Have  ye  got  any  money  with  ye?"  he  asked  cautiously 
as  he  sat  down  on  the  stones. 

"I  have  indeed,"  said  the  man. 

"Will  ye  show  it  me  then,  for  'tis  not  meself  would 
be  playin'  with  anny  strange  man  I'd  be  meetin'  on  the  roads 
but  what  I'd  know  had  he  money  to  be  payin'  with  and  he 
losin'  with  the  faces  of  the  cards." 

The  man  laughed  at  him  and  said  it  was  easy  seen  the 
farmer  knew  that  pennies  were  not  to  be  picked  off  thorn 
bushes.  Then  he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  when 
Kirwan  saw  the  two  half  crowns,  the  threepenny  piece  in 
silver  and  the  copper  money  he  brought  out  in  the  palm 
of  his  hand,  he  was  satisfied  and  began  shuffling  the  cards. 

The  look  of  money  always  excited  him  and  he  was  thinking 
already  how  much  of  that  he  had  seen  would  presently  be 
lying  in  the  warmth  of  his  pocket  with  the  shillings  he  had 
won  at  Kelleher's. 

There  was  soon  a  silence  from  them  as  they  played  and 
all  the  time  Kirwan  was  thinking  how  he  could  be  telling  them 
at  Creasy's  house  in  the  street  the  way  he  had  played  cards 
with  a  strange  man  on  the  road,  taking  the  risk  of  winning 
or  losing  and  going  back  to  his  house  with  two  half-crowns 
and  a  threepenny  piece  of  silver  in  his  pocket.  Perhaps  it 
was  thinking  of  it  so  much  took  his  mind  off  what  he  was 
doing.  He  had  good  cards  dealt  out  to  him,  but  the  other 


THE  MIRACLE  211 

man  had  better  and  again  and  again  he  won  the  trick  that 
Kirwan  thought  surely  would  be  his  own. 

After  the  first  game  he  had  lost  eightpence.  Nevertheless 
he  knew  his  luck  was  still  with  him  because  there  were  good 
cards  coming  to  him  and  with  the  skill  he  had  at  the  playing 
and  his  cunning  with  the  cards  he  put  down,  he  knew  he 
must  win  in  the  end.  All  the  same  he  lost  the  second  game 
and  then  the  third  and  there  was  only  fourpence  left  to  him 
out  of  the  money  he  had  won  from  Kelleher  in  his  house. 

"God  blast  the  cards!"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  "for  'tis  not 
the  badness  of  the  luck  I'd  be  havin'  mesdf  but  the  diwle's 
own  luck  is  comin'  to  ye." 

The  man  laughed  softly  with  a  long  murmur  in  his  throat 
and  he  said  nothing,  but  dealt  the  cards  for  the  fourth  game 
on  to  the  flat  face  of  the  big  stone  they  were  playing  on. 
Still  the  best  of  the  luck  was  with  him  and  he  was  successful 
again.  This  time  it  was  more  than  the  three  shillings  he 
had  won  that  were  gone  from  Kirwan  and  it  was  with  a  poor 
grace  he  threw  the  cards  down.  It  was  bad  enough  to  him 
to  be  losing  what  he  had  won,  but  when  it  came  to  money 
that  was  his  own  he  had  taken  with  him  out  of  the  house,  his 
temper  was  worse  than  Kelleher's  temper  had  been. 

But  it  was  more  than  mere  anger  now  at  the  fortune  he  was 
having.  Insidious  thoughts,  mingling  with  fear,  were  begin- 
ning to  sense  their  way  into  his  mind.  He  began  to  wonder 
what  a  queer  thing  it  was  and  unlike  himself  to  be  playing 
cards  with  a  strange  man  at  night  on  a  heap  of  stones  by  the 
roadside.  He  tried  to  remember  the  thought  that  had  first 
induced  him  to  it.  As  he  shuffled  the  cards,  he  seemed  to 
recollect  it  was  the  persuasiveness  of  the  man's  voice  that 
had  invited  him  and  made  it  appear  reasonable  enough  to 
him  then  when  he  first  sat  down. 

From  under  the  pale  red  tufts  of  his  eyebrows,  he  snatched 
a  glance  at  the  man  playing  with  him  there  in  that  odd  com- 


212  THE  MIRACLE 

panionship.  It  was  quite  an  ordinary  man  he  seemed  to  be, 
but  whether  he  was  a  tinker  with  clothes  that  had  been  given 
him  at  the  door  of  a  good  house,  or  whether  he  was  a  trav- 
elling schoolmaster  going  from  one  place  to  another  with  his 
books  hidden  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  or  what  he  was, 
Kirwan  found  it  impossible  in  his  mind  to  say. 

He  was  dealing  out  the  cards  then  and  not  looking  as 
closely  as  he  might  have  been  at  what  he  was  doing  for  he 
dropped  a  card  on  the  grass.  As  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up  at 
the  side  of  the  man's  foot  where  it  lay,  his  heart  was  bound 
in  the  swift  ice  of  fear.  Out  of  the  end  of  the  leg  of  his 
trousers,  it  was  not  a  foot  that  was  protruding  but  what 
looked  like  a  horned  lump  of  flesh  and  to  Kirwan's  eyes  as 
the  fear  shot  into  them  and  linked  with  the  horror  in  his 
mind,  seemed  cloven  as  a  hoof. 

He  looked  no  more. 

With  a  scream,  as  of  one  who  screams  in  terror  in  his 
sleep,  he  scrambled  to*  his  feet  and  ran.  Down  the  road 
towards  Ardnashiela  he  pelted.  His  hat  flew  off.  He  did 
not  know  it  had  gone.  And  behind  him  in  the  darkness  he 
heard  the  hobbling  feet  of  the  man,  like  a  spancelled  cow, 
running  behind  him. 

He  was  crying  out  that  the  farmer  had  not  paid  him  for 
the  last  game  he  had  lost.  In  the  black  night,  between  the 
clatter  of  his  own  feet  on  the  road,  Kirwan  heard  his  voice 
and  it  seemed  to  be  words  of  a  curse  he  was  crying  out  so 
that  he  ran  the  faster  down  the  road.  It  was  not  until  the 
houses  in  the  street  were  at  both  sides  of  him  that  he  stopped 
to  listen. 

All  the  night  was  still. 

The  wind  that  had  blown  the  mist  up  from  the  sea  had 
not  left  a  murmur  behind  it 


II 

IT  was  close  upon  ten  o'clock  when  Kirwan  came  home 
that  night.     He  did  not  walk  by  the  road  and  across 
the  fields  as  he  would  have  done  at  any  other  time,  but 
to  the  end  of  the  village  and  along  the  strand  where  the  noise 
of  the  sea  was  a  quiet  for  the  sound  of  his  fears.    Notwith- 
standing, he  looked  over  his  shoulder  every  few  steps  he  took. 
Once  he  trod  upon  a  piece  of  sea-weed  that  spat  and  crackled 
under  his  feet.    At  the  unexpected  sound  his  heart  came  to 
a  sudden  leaping.    The  sweat  was  cold  as  drops  of  dew  on 
his  forehead. 

It  was  the  real  panic  of  fear  that  was  on  him.  Fears  of 
the  unknown  disembowelled  him  of  all  instincts  of  a  man. 
It  was  a  beast  at  bay  he  became  as  they  crept  about  him. 
Any  escape  he  would  have  seized,  flying  from  one  darkness 
to  another.  It  was  only  by  muttering  and  singing  in  his 
voice  as  he  hurried  home  that  he  kept  the  hold  of  his  reason 
and  came  a  sane  man  to  his  door. 

"We  are  the  boys  of  Wexford 
Who  fought  with  heart  and  hand — " 

He  sang  in  a  cracked  voice  which  when  presently  he 
heard  it  break  on  a  high  note  terrified  him  with  the  sound 
of  its  fear  into  a  moment  of  silence.  But  he  could  not  bear 
the  silence  and  then  he  talked  aloud. 

"May  the  Lord  God  Almighty  have  mercy  on  me,"  he 
muttered,  invoking  blessings  from  the  only  source  he  knew 
could  defend  him  from  evil.  "May  the  Holy  Mother  and  all 

213 


214  THE  MIRACLE 

the  Saints  of  God  have  a  care  of  me  this  night  till  the  first 
tint  of  dawn." 

It  was  not  too  long  he  would  ask  for  that  care  and  bless- 
ing. Surely  it  might  be  granted  him  just  that  little  while 
till  dawn  broke.  It  was  not  a  greedy  man  he  was,  with  all 
the  terror  that  was  on  him.  If  it  was  the  angels  of  God 
were  round  him  just  that  night,  he  felt  it  was  any  damned 
thing  he  could  face  at  all  with  the  light  of  morning.  He 
forced  himself  to  see  that  the  grace  of  God  had  been  with 
him  already. 

"Shure  if  it  weren't  for  that  card  droppin',"  he  whispered, 
"mightn't  I  have  been  playin*  with  himself  now  at  this 
hour  and  he  puttin'  the  stroke  on  me  with  every  little  look 
he'd  be  twistin'  out  of  his  eyes." 

That  was  a  terrible  thought.  The  sweat  broke  out  on  his 
forehead  again.  But  it  brought  its  consolations.  The  grace 
of  God  must  have  been  with  him,  no  matter  what  had  hap- 
pened him  that  night,  for  there  he  was  walking  with  the 
firm  sand  under  his  feet,  the  sound  of  the  water  breaking  in 
his  ears  and  the  start  of  orange  light  from  the  kitchen  win- 
dow of  the  farm  not  far  distant  now  in  his  eyes. 

With  a  thankfulness  to  the  Almighty  that  had  no  greater 
depth  to  it  than  the  safety  of  his  skin  and  his  reason,  he  came 
at  last  to  his  door  and  tumbled  into  the  reassuring  light  of 
the  peat  fire  and  the  oil  lamp  that  was  burning  on  the  table. 
With  a  slam  he  shut  the  door  behind  him  and  ran  the  bolt 
far  home  into  its  socket. 

The  blind  man  was  sitting  there  alone  in  the  recess  of  the 
chimney.  He  was  turning  the  bellows  wheel.  As  Kirwan 
entered,  he  stopped  and  his  head  bent  to  listening  that  served 
him  for  sight,  but  he  said  nothing. 

The  farmer  took  no  notice  of  him.  With  a  trembling  that 
was  still  in  him,  he  went  straight  to  the  cupboard  of  the  deal 
dresser  and  took  out  a  bottle  of  whisky,  half  filling  a  tumbler 


THE  MIRACLE  215 

and  drinking  it  neat  like  water.  As  the  warmth  of  it  ran 
in  his  throat  and  down  into  the  hollow  void  of  his  stomach 
he  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  The  voice  of  Mrs.  Kirwan 
reassured  him  then  from  the  room  beyond,  where  they  slept. 

"Is  that  yeerself  ?"  she  called. 

"It  is— thanks  be  to  God !"  said  he. 

"Is  Mary  with  ye?" 

"Shure,  why  the  hell  should  she?" 

"Where  is  it  ye  been  then?" 

'  Tis  a  game  of  cards  I've  been  playin*  with  Kelleher 
beyond  over — and  the  Lord  God  knows  what  'ud  be  happenin' 
to  me  the  time  I  came  away  from  that  place." 

He  waited  an  instant  for  her  to  be  asking  him  what  it  was 
had  happened  to  him  on  his  way  home  and  the  next  moment 
he  saw  her  there  in  the  doorway  herself  with  her  black  hair 
in  tangled  shreds  lying  greasily  over  the  doubtful  whiteness 
of  her  cotton  shift. 

He  was  ready  with  that  residue  of  fear  that  was  still 
lingering  in  him  to  be  over-surprised  at  anything  that  hap- 
pened that  night.  Standing  with  his  legs  apart,  gripping  his 
empty  glass,  he  stared  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"What's  on  ye  in  the  name  of  God!"  he  exclaimed,  "to 
be  gettin'  out  of  yeer  bed  and  comin*  standin'  there  at  the 
door?" 

"Where's  Mary?"  she  asked. 

"How  the  hell  would  I  know?"  said  he. 

"She's  gone." 

"Where  has  she  gone?" 

"Wisha,  I  dunno." 

"When  was  she  gone?" 

"I  dunno." 

"When  did  ye  see  her  last?" 

"The  time  she'd  be  comin'  in  from  the  milkm'/ 

"And  'tis  not  since  ye've  seen  her?" 


216  THE  MIRACLE 

"It  is  not." 

There  was  no  sound  of  anxiety  in  her  voice.  On  the 
usual  dull  monotonous  note  she  gave  her  answers  to  all  his 
questions.  Impatiently  he  turned  on  the  blind  man. 

"Has  she  said  ere  a  word  to  yeerself  at  all,  blind  man?" 
he  asked. 

"She  has  not." 

James  Kirwan  looked  about  the  room  and  as  he  looked 
he  saw  in  his  mind  the  remembrance  of  the  dancing  and  the 
sight  in  the  eyes  of  Fennel,  the  fisherman,  that  had  followed 
her  round  and  round  as  she  laughed  and  danced.  He  laughed 
himself  then  and  it  was  with  a  lewd  grin  on  his  face  he 
turned  to  his  wife  standing  there  in  her  shift. 

"  'Tis  up  with  the  fisherman  in  his  cottage  she's  gone," 
said  he,  "and  isn't  it  keepin'  her  he  is  till  he's  had  his  way 
with  her?" 

It  was  with  the  first  note  of  feeling  in  her  voice  that  she 
asked  him  if  he  would  not  go  up  there  to  the  cliff  road  and 
bring  her  back  with  him. 

"I  will  not !"  he  shouted  against  the  call  he  felt  to  be  doing 
what  she  said.  "God  knows  there's  enough  I  seen  in  the 
darkness  this  night  and  there's  not  all  the  sin  is  in  the  pits 
of  hell  'ud  be  drawin'  me  out  there  to  be  stoppin'  it.  Shure 
didn't  I  know  always  there  was  a  bad  streak  of  blood  was 
in  her,  and  if  'tis  that  way  she  be  goin'  without  the  words 
of  the  priest,  let  her  go.  'Tis  not  meself'll  be  fetchin'  her 
away  this  night.  Get  into  yeer  bed,  woman,  for  God's  sake 
get  into  yeer  bed !" 

In  silence  she  did  as  he  told  her.  He  came  presently  him- 
self to  lie  beside  her.  With  his  hot  breath  on  her  shoulders, 
he  told  her  in  heavy  whispers  the  thing  he  had  seen  on  the 
road  that  night 


Ill 

FENNEL  had  brushed  the  dust  off  his  boots  and  was 
reaching  down  the  best  coat  he  had  to  go  to  Mass  in 
that  Sunday  morning  when  the  door  of  his  cottage 
opened  without  knock  or  warning  and  James  Kirwan  stood 
on  the  threshold.     He  looked  about  him  and  long  at  the  bed 
in  the  room  before  he  spoke. 

"Where's  Mary?"  he  said  at  last. 

Fennel  gaped  at  him. 

"Where's  Mary?"  he  repeated. 

The  fisherman  walked  across  the  room  and  stared  in  his 
face. 

"Where  should  she  be  ?"  he  asked.  "And  why  in  the  name 
of  God  are  ye  lookin'  for  her  here?" 

"Mightn't  she  be  here,"  said  Kirwan,  "and  she  not  in  the 
house  itself  down  beyond?" 

"What  would  she  be  here  for  this  hour  of  the  morning?" 

If  in  his  soul  a  man  can  grin,  when  it  is  not  revealed  either 
in  his  countenance  or  in  a  consciousness  of  his  mind,  yet  is 
surely  there  somewhere  in  the  utterance  of  his  nature,  James 
Kirwan  grinned  then. 

"Oh — shure  she  may  have  gone  this  time  and  early,  the 
way  I'd  miss  her  meself  comin'  up." 

Every  feature  in  the  fisherman's  face  bent  into  the  bewil- 
derment of  a  frown. 

"What  is  it  ye're  talkin'?"  he  muttered. 

"I'm  talkin',"  said  Kirwan,  "what  I'm  after  wantin'  U 
know.  What  time  is  it  she  left  ye  for  she  was  not  milkin1 
the  cows  in  the  shed  when  I  left  the  place." 

217 


218  THE  MIRACLE 

Fennel  murmured  she  had  not  been  there  and  suddenly 
with  that  statement  as  he  made  it,  he  partly  recognised  what 
the  farmer  was  imputing  against  him. 

"D'ye  mean  was  she  here  last  night?" 

There  was  a  suspicious  quiet  in  his  manner  of  saying  it, 
too  delicate  almost  to  stir  the  caution  always  ready  in  the 
composition  of  James  Kirwan.  Rubbing  his  hands  together 
and  with  the  sly  lasciviousness  of  a  smile,  he  said  it  was  that 
he  meant  surely  and  added  some  gross  recognition  of  it  as 
of  something  that  might  happen  to  any  man  and  girl  on  the 
eve  of  their  marrying.  There  were  many  reasons  why  the 
farmer  had  no  cause  to  be  sorry  for  what  he  believed  had 
happened.  If  it  were  so,  there  was  no  turning  round  from 
his  promise  left  to  the  fisherman  now.  He  would  not  dare 
to  be  asking  for  a  dowry  or  anything  at  all. 

Joe  Fennel  stood  there  a  moment  in  silence  looking  at 
Kirwan,  not  only  with  contempt  as  he  had  before,  but  with 
a  quivering  of  anger  that  strained  his  lips  and  dilated  his 
nostrils  as  he  breathed. 

"Is  it  that  sort  of  man  ye  think  I  am?"  said  he,  "to  be 
bringin'  sin  and  shame  to  a  girrl  before  the  priest  has  said 
the  word  over  her  ?"  He  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  his 
hands  to  keep  them  away  from  Kirwan's  face.  It  was  a  wide 
and  a  flabby  face  and  he  hated  the  look  in  it.  In  but  the 
shortest  space  of  time  he  knew  he  could  disfigure  it,  almost 
beyond  recognition.  For  Mary's  sake  and  for  no  other  rea- 
son at  all,  he  kept  his  hands  to  himself. 

"Ye're  a  dirrty  man,  James  Kirwan !"  he  said,  when  with 
peculiar  grimaces  and  quick  snorts  of  his  breath,  he  had  mas- 
tered himself.  "I  dunno  how  was  it  ye  came  to  gettin'  a 
child  with  the  sweetness  and  gentleness  of  that  girrl  at  all. 
Isn't  it  mean  as  a  dish  of  d'irrty  water  ye  are?  Shure,  it 
makes  me  sick  to  be  tastin'  the  looks  of  ye  and  let  ye  be 
rememberin'  that  the  time — "  He  stopped.  As  though  a 


THE  MIRACLE  219 

voice  had  called  him  to  silence,  his  words  ceased.  With  a 
changed  look  in  his  eyes  as  the  light  of  the  whole  matter 
penetrated  the  density  of  his  intellect,  he  gazed  in  a  sharpen- 
ing fear  at  Kirwan. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  shouted. 

Relieved  to  observe  that  transition  in  the  course  of  the 
fisherman's  thoughts,  Kirwan  was  only  too  glad  to  let  pass 
all  he  had  said. 

"Shure,  I'm  askin'  ye  that  meself,"  he  cried  back  at  him. 
A  show  of  spirit  here  pledged  him  to  no  vindication  of  any- 
thing the  fisherman  had  said.  He  saw  quickly  enough  that 
Fennel  was  frightened  now.  His  fighting  mood  was  gone. 
This  lifting  of  the  farmer's  voice  was  a  suitable  contrivance 
to  preserve  his  dignity. 

"Amn't  I  after  tellin'  ye  she  was  not  in  the  house  last 
night,"  he  went  on,  "and  she's  not  there  this  morning? 
Shure,  there's  not  a  crease  on  her  bed  and  diwle  a  sight  or 
sound  of  her  anny  place  at  all." 

They  gaped  from  one  to  the  other  in  a  witlessness  of  mind. 

"Where  was  it  last  she  was  seen?"  muttered  Fennel. 

"Herself  saw  her  comin'  in  from  the  milkin'." 

"What  time  was  that?" 
'  'Twas  five  or  a  half  after  it  may  be." 

"Did  she  say  annything — where  she  was  goin'  or  anny 
word  at  all?" 

"Diwle  a  word." 

"Where  were  ye  yeerself  that  time  ?" 
'  'Twas  in  the  barn  I  was,  trussin'  and  stackin'  the  straw." 

"Ye  had  no  sight  of  her  yeerself  ?" 

"I  had  not." 

For  a  moment,  that  seemed  to  exhaust  all  the  questions 
the  wit  of  Fennel  could  conceive.  He  stood  in  silence  look- 
ing at  Kirwan,  bemused  with  the  effort  of  his  catechism  and 
confounded  with  the  answers  he  had  received.  In  a  mute 


220  THE  MIRACLE 

helplessness  he  turned  away  to  the  window,  staring  out  across 
the  wide  space  of  the  bay  to  the  distance  of  Helvic  Head  and 
that  far  cluster  of  trees  in  their  isolation  at  Killanardrish. 

The  best  of  the  weather  had  gone  since  the  threshing  was 
over.  That  mist  the  evening  before  was  merely  a  herald 
of  rain  and  wind  gathering  up  out  of  the  South- West.  The 
clear  interval  that  had  followed  it  had  been  swept  over  with 
clouds  before  midnight.  The  sea  was  now  a  slaty  grey  with 
gusts  of  wind  whipping  it  till  it  seemed  to  be  snarling  with 
a  treacherous  anger. 

"When  did  ye  first  find  'twas  the  way  she's  gone?"  mut- 
tered Fennel  without  turning. 

"At  ten  bi  the  clock  when  I  came  home." 

"Where  were  ye  that  time  of  the  night?" 

"Havin*  a  game  of  the  cards  I  was  at  Kelleher's,  the 
smith." 

"And  was  there  no  trace  ye  saw  of  her  on  the  road  comin' 
back?" 

Whether  enlightening  or  not,  he  asked  any  questions  that 
were  new  in  his  mind.  For  it  was  being  borne  upon  him 
now  that  all  that  was  left  for  them  was  to  search  and  search 
until  they  found  her.  At  the  sound  of  the  farmer's  silence 
to  that  last  enquiry,  he  turned  round. 

"Was  there  no  trace  ye  saw  ?"  he  asked. 

Kirwan's  eyes  were  set  wide  and  his  mouth  was  gaping. 
He  had  fully  realised  at  last  that  Mary  had  not  been  that  night 
with  the  fisherman  and  with  the  sound  of  this  last  question 
a  light,  freshened  with  the  memory  of  his  fears  of  the  night 
before,  had  lit  up  the  whole  latitude  of  his  imagination. 

With  stammerings  of  awe  and  the  sickness  of  fright  in  his 
voice,  he  told  Fennel  of  the  man  he  had  seen,  the  game  of 
cards  he  had  played  sitting  on  the  stones,  the  money  he  had 
lost  and  the  way  it  had  ended  for  him. 

"  Twas  the  hoof  of  a  foot  he  had,"  he  whispered,  "an' 


THE  MIRACLE  221 

it  peepin'  out  with  a  cleft  in  it  like  a  cow  or  a  wild  beast 
maybe.  Wasn't  it  that  time  we  were  playin'  he  was  puttin' 
the  stroke  on  me  to  be  leadin'  me  astray?  He  was  indeed. 
And  wasn't  it  great  sense  I  had  to  be  runnin'  down  the  road 
puttin'  crosses  on  meself  without  waitin'  for  the  cards  he 
had  in  his  hand  or  the  hat  would  be  f  allin'  off  of  me  head  ?" 

The  mind  of  the  fisherman  now  was  wandering  like  a 
child  lost  in  a  trackless  wood,  all  power  of  reason  and  se- 
lection gone  from  it,  turning  this  way  and  then  that  in 
fruitless  efforts  to  find  a  path  out  into  the  clear  light.  One 
vivid  idea  only  was  constant  in  his  thoughts.  The  power 
of  that  unknown  world  was  still  about  him.  Still,  directly 
or  indirectly,  he  knew  himself  to  be  the  sport  of  its  will. 
From  the  tale  he  had  heard,  in  which  there  could  be  no 
suspicion  of  incredulity  and  of  which  there  was  only  one 
explanation,  he  knew  They  were  abroad  with  Their  malice 
and  Their  mischief  to  be  doing  harm  and  bringing  sorrow 
into  his  life. 

Mary  was  gone.  Just  in  that  moment  before  she  would 
be  coming  to  bring  him  the  softness  and  kindness  of  life 
and  drive  out  of  his  days  the  long  loneliness  that  was 
there,  the  faeries  had  taken  her. 

Why  had  They  taken  her?  Oh,  shure,  there  were  a 
thousand  reasons  why  They  should.  Wasn't  it  the  gentlest 
voice  she  had  and  that  look  away  from  the  world  there 
was  always  in  her  face?  The  wonder  of  all  women  was 
in  her  eyes  and  it  was  ones  like  that  they  would  be  taking 
more  than  others  who  had  not  such  great  quality  in  them- 
selves. 

He  sat  down  on  the  chair  by  the  side  of  his  fire,  looking 
no  more  at  Kirwan,  but  rocking  his  weight  to  and  fro 
from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

A  mood  of  fatalism  and  helplessness  had  come  over  him. 

"Wisha,  God  be  with  the  days,"  he  muttered  and  despair 


222  THE  MIRACLE 

was  so  overwhelming  upon  him  then,  that  though  a  few 
moments  before  he  had  been  casting  about  in  the  lively 
fear  of  his  mind  where  they  might  search,  now  all  volition 
and  energy  of  thought  was  gone  from  him. 

He  gave  himself  up  as  if  he  were  its  victim  to  the 
belief  that  he  would  never  see  her  again.  Truly,  some- 
times they  came  back  who  were  taken  that  way.  They 
came  back,  but  their  wits  were  gone  from  them.  Once 
he  had  seen  a  woman,  babbling  with  loose  and  drooping  lip 
who,  after  being  lost  for  seven  months,  had  returned  to 
the  door  of  the  place  where  she  had  been  living.  And  of 
what  use  was  she  to  the  man  of  the  house  who  had  let  her 
in?  There  was  nothing  she  remembered  of  the  room  where 
she  had  eaten  her  food,  or  the  bed  she  had  slept  in.  With 
a  stream  of  spittle  running  always  from  her  lips  she  had 
no  power  to  be  keeping  in  her  mouth,  she  had  lived  with 
him  there  in  his  cabin  in  the  hills  for  three  years  and  more, 
and  in  the  end  they  had  found  her  with  her  head  in  a 
bucket  of  water,  with  her  hair  floating  and  her  body  twist- 
ing to  keep  herself  there  till  death  came  to  her.  And  didn't 
it  come  soon  after  in  the  black  of  one  night? 

He  prayed  God  that  Mary  might  never  come  back  at 
all  if  it  was  that  way  she  would  be  coming. 

Then  he  stood  up  by  the  fire  and  beat  his  hands  and 
shut  his  fist  and  hammered  it  against  the  breast  of  the 
chimney.  "Ah — shure,  God  help  us!"  he  cried  out  in  the 
pain  of  his  loneliness  and  despair.  "Isn't  it  long  the  days 
have  been  for  me  and  wasn't  I  thinkin'  they  were  goin' 
to  be  slippin'  by  like  water  over  the  smooth  of  the  stones?" 


IV 

FATHER  ROCHE  served  Mass  at  ten  o'clock  that 
morning  and  was  gone  out  of  Ardnashiela  on  the  old 
white  horse  he  rode  about  his  straggling  parish  before 
the  disappearance  of  Mary  Kirwan  was  put  about  the  village. 
Even  by  then  it  would  have  been  hard  to  know  who  was 
the  first  to  spread  the  story.  Mrs.  Kirwan  went  to  Mass 
and  spoke  no  word  to  any  one.  All  that  morning  the  blind 
man  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  farm  kitchen,  smoking  his  pipe  and 
turning  the  wheel  when  the  peat  needed  it.  As  in  the 
manner  of  a  dumb  animal,  having  lost  all  central  purpose  in 
his  being,  less  than  a  vagrant  and  by  physical  contact  alone 
keeping  in  touch  with  the  meaningless  movement  of  life,  Fen- 
nel wandered  out  onto  the  cliffs.  If  he  were  aware  of  any 
motive  in  himself,  it  was  that  he  was  looking  for  Mary. 
He  was  not  searching  for  her.  There  was  no  hope,  only  a 
fear  in  him  that  he  would  find  her.  But  fear  in  him  was 
not  the  over-mastering  emotion  as  it  was  in  Kirwan.  With 
all  the  terror  that  he  had  of  finding  her  witless,  demented, 
a  sight  of  horror  where  beauty  had  once  been,  there  was 
nothing  in  his  nature  to  drive  him  to  shirk  the  truth  if  this 
was  what  it  had  to  be. 

With  the  heavy  steps  of  one  wandering  in  sleep,  he  walked 
round  the  headlands  as  far  as  where  he  had  landed  her 
that  morning  upon  the  rocks.  At  every  opening  rent  in  the 
cliffs  where  the  sea  had  cut  a  way,  he  stopped.  Down  every 
crevasse  he  looked.  With  the  first  glance,  his  eyes  narrowed 
as  though  to  hide  rather  than  discover  the  thing  he  might 
find.  When  there  was  nothing  there,  they  opened  wider. 

223 


224  THE  MIRACLE 

Then  he  dared  to  look  and  from  there  went  onwards  from 
one  headland  to  another. 

All  that  day  he  wandered,  climbing  sometimes  down  the 
cliff  side  to  the  water's  edge  and  looking  helplessly  over 
the  grey  leaden  fret  and  fume  of  the  sea.  For  the  first 
time  in  all  his  life  as  a  fisherman,  the  water  revealed  a 
sullen  relentlessness  to  him.  It  did  not  move  him  to  fear. 
It  broke  his  spirit  to  surrender.  At  the  feet  of  the  rocks, 
black  with  their  slime  of  weed,  the  waves  an  unbroken  hiss 
and  clamour  in  his  ears  and  the  spray  licking  his  face,  he 
stood  in  a  humility  of  submission.  Life  had  its  way  with 
men  and  women.  He  recognised  that  then.  The  sea  was 
life  to  him.  He  knew  no  abstract  sense  of  it.  If  somewhere 
in  the  mass  of  those  grey  waters  her  body  was  lying  in  the 
drag  of  the  waves  as  he  had  seen  the  bodies  of  big  fish  lie 
that  had  died  in  their  own  element,  floating  half  submerged 
till  the  birds  consumed  them,  that  then  was  the  way  life  had 
with  her  and  with  him — a  way  as  fixed  and  inevitable  as  the 
tides  themselves. 

Through  all  that  day,  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  adopt  the 
usual  measures  that  are  resorted  to  in  a  civilized  community 
in  such  a  case  of  sudden  disappearance.  There  was  a  sergeant 
and  one  policeman  in  a  cottage,  called  the  barracks,  in  the 
street  of  Ardnashiela.  It  never  entered  his  head  to  communi- 
cate with  them.  This  was  not  so  much  because  of  what  they 
could  or  could  not  do,  but  rather  because  one  thing  only  was 
certain  in  his  mind.  The  faeries  had  taken  her.  How  else 
in  so  sudden  a  way  could  she  have  disappeared?  Had  he 
never  heard  that  story  from  Kirwan  of  his  encounter  with 
one  of  Them  the  night  before,  this  was  the  inevitable  con- 
clusion he  would  have  come  to. 

The  only  normal  things  that  happen  in  the  life  of  such 
a  place  as  Ardnashiela  are  of  such  small  account  as  almost 
to  pass  unnoticed.  Births,  the  natural  deaths  of  old  people, 


THE  MIRACLE  225 

quarrellings  and  occasional  emigrations,  these  make  up  the 
only  spectacular  conditions  of  existence. 

It  is  the  press  of  life  that  robs  life  of  its  significance — the 
crowd  of  people  in  which  the  souls  of  people  are  lost. 

Whatever  one  may  think  in  reason  of  that  significance 
they  put  upon  these  happenings  on  the  wild  coasts  of  Ire- 
land, it  is  not  inconsequent.  It  is  not  one  of  neglect.  The 
ways  of  life  are  real  to  them.  They  move  with  an  unerring 
and  compelling  destiny.  If  the  vast  purposes  of  it  are  not 
divulged,  they  are  at  least  revealed. 

It  was  not  by  the  agency  of  police  or  recognised  authority 
that  Fennel  thought  he  would  ever  be  able  to  find  Mary  Kir- 
wan.  The  faeries  had  taken  her.  It  was  They  alone  who 
could  give  her  back. 

In  such  a  manner  the  mind  of  James  Kirwan  was  at 
work  though  driving  him  to  different  measures.  The  thought 
of  communicating  with  the  police  never  entered  his  head  when 
he  left  Fennel's  cottage.  There  was  the  truth  of  it.  They 
were  abroad.  If  it  was  at  the  cards  he  had  lost,  surely  the 
luck  was  with  him  that  night  when  he  had  pelted  down  the 
road  and  escaped. 

All  that  night  he  had  lain  upon  his  bed,  listening  for  the 
ever-expected  knock  upon  the  door.  They  had  left  him  in 
peace.  It  was  Mary  They  had  taken.  What  other  reason 
was  there  for  her  disappearance  than  this? 

The  countless  things  that  might  happen  to  people  in 
crowded  places  could  not  happen  here.  Where  had  she  gone, 
how  had  she  been  spirited  away  into  nothingness  if  it  was 
not  Their  work? 

He  had  said  the  night  before  to  his  wife  he  had  always 
known  there  was  a  bad  drop  of  blood  in  her.  It  was  more 
than  that  he  had  known.  He  had  known,  but  he  had  never 
made  it  conscious  to  himself  in  words,  that  there  was 


226  THE  MIRACLE 

something  was  queer  in  her.  Daughter  though  she  might 
be  of  his,  and  useful  with  her  hands  and  steady  about  the 
farm,  she  was  no  ordinary  girl.  Why  had  she  gone  on  as  she 
did  when  he  killed  the  black  dog?  What  was  there  was  in 
her  to  be  fondling  a  little  beast  like  that?  And  why  had 
it  ever  come  to  the  house  at  all? 

He  knew.  He  had  known  all  along.  But  never  had  he 
known  as  surely  as  now. 

One  person  his  thoughts  turned  to  if  help  could  be  given 
or  were  of  any  account  in  such  an  event  as  this.  With  no 
such  uncertain  steps  as  Fennel's,  wandering  over  the  head- 
lands, he  walked  down  the  cliff  road  and  turned  into  the 
street,  knocking  at  Shaughnessy's  door  and  waiting  for  the 
thin  voice  responding  within  before  he  entered. 

It  was  a  cottage  of  one  room  with  a  wash-house  beneath 
a  sloping  roof  at  the  back.  In  the  distressed  light  from  the 
one  little  window,  the  sheep,  Shaughnessy  had  killed  in  that 
room  late  in  the  week,  hung  from  the  beam  below  the  thatch. 
A  basin  of  blood,  darkened  in  its  contact  with  the  air,  stood 
on  the  floor  beneath  it.  The  last  drop  had  fallen.  A  thick 
solid  skein  of  red  swung  from  the  end  of  the  beast's  nos- 
trils. There  was  no  longer  any  flow  of  blood  to  carry  it 
away.  The  animal  hung  there  with  its  skin  half  ripped 
from  it,  falling  in  woolly  folds  from  its  pale  flanks  as  gar- 
ments that  are  dropping  from  a  naked  body.  A  stench  of 
blood,  viscous  and  heavy,  lay  upon  the  air.  The  smell  of 
the  peat  could  not  cleanse  or  overcome  it. 

To  Kirwan  the  sight  of  that  carcase  and  the  reek  of  blood 
were  nothing.  His  eyes  passed  by  the  pale  thing,  suspending 
with  its  attenuated  flesh  from  the  beam.  It  was  at  Shaugh- 
nessy he  looked,  lying  in  the  disorder  of  his  bed  with  the 
dirty  clothes  heaped  up  about  him.  His  long,  grey  hair  was 
gathered  in  greasy  masses  on  his  neck.  His  watery  eyes, 


THE  MIRACLE  227 

blood-shot  and  dropping  in  the  lids,  stared  where  they  looked 
without  human  meaning.  Notwithstanding  the  unnatural 
largeness  of  his  head,  with  the  absence  of  any  lines  above 
the  small  features  he  had,  even  to  the  curve  of  his  lips, 
he  was  more  like  a  woman  than  a  man — a  woman  grown  old, 
who  has  dragged  her  looks  with  her  through  every  condition 
of  life  to  the  edge  of  the  grave. 

To  this  man  and  in  that  place,  the  farmer  told  his  story 
of  what  had  happened  him  the  night  before  and  the  way 
Themselves  had  taken  his  daughter  out  of  the  house  so 
that  she  was  no  more  to  be  seen  in  any  place  at  all. 

Shaughnessy  sat  for  a  long  while  silent  in  his  bed,  blink- 
ing his  eyes.  The  water  rolled  out  of  them,  one  thin  drop 
after  another  down  his  cheeks. 

'  'Tis  often  the  way  with  a  young  girrl  has  'ticin'  looks 
with  her,"  he  said  presently,  "and  she  be  the  side  of  her 
marriage  bed.  Shure  what  would  They  be  wantin'  with 
her  but  her  body  itself  can  have  no  childer  of  their  own." 

Kirwan  accepted  this  with  a  nodding  head.  His  relations 
with  the  butcher  in  their  transactions  over  sheep  were  very 
different  from  what  they  were  here.  In  business  matters, 
being  the  only  farmer  nearer  than  five  miles,  he  could  afford 
to  bully  and  coerce.  Now  he  came  as  a  novice  to  one  knowing 
mysteries  and  being  acquainted  with  the  meaning  of  dreams. 

Wherever  these  occult  beliefs  exist  in  any  community, 
the  seer,  the  soothsayer,  the  prophet  is  to  be  found.  It  was 
known  by  nearly  all  in  Ardnashiela  that  Shaughnessy  could 
read  a  dream  and  had  told  queer  things  at  times  from  them 
that  had  come  true.  There  were  many  stories  whispered 
about  him  having  foundation  perhaps  in  his  trade.  No  one 
conceived  it  dirty,  or  unhealthy  for  him  to  be  killing  his 
sheep  in  the  room  where  he  slept  and  draining  the  blood  out 
of  it  into  a  basin  on  the  floor.  Yet  there  was  scarcely  one 


228  THE  MIRACLE 

who,  when  his  door  happened  to  be  open,  had  seen  the  drab 
beast  hanging  there,  who  did  not  feel  an  inward  revulsion  at 
the  thought  of  such  a  companion  through  the  length  and 
darkness  of  night.  He  dealt  with  death.  It  was  his  trade. 
Every  woman  in  Ardnashiela,  seeing  him  from  her  windows 
as  he  drove  his  victim  through  the  street  from  Kirwan's 
fields  shuddered  in  herself  at  the  placidity  of  that  smile  that 
seemed  always  to  be  lingering  at  such  times  about  the  curve 
of  his  lips.  It  was  not  because  killing  an  animal  was  an  ugly 
business  to  them,  but  because  it  was  to  be  killed  by  Shaugh- 
nessy  and  with  a  laugh  maybe  in  that  little  room  of  his 
with  the  door  shut  fast  and  the  firelight  trembling  on  the 
window  pane. 

Thus  the  stories  about  him  had  grown  around  his  person- 
ality and  the  work  he  did.  Kirwan  was  not  the  only  one  who 
in  secret  had  come  to  him  to  explain  and  advise  and  read  the 
meaning  of  hidden  things. 

Having  accepted  this  first  pronouncement  as  reason  enough 
for  the  disappearance  of  Mary,  the  farmer  asked  was  there 
anything  in  the  name  of  God  that  he  could  do. 

"Wasn't  it  a  useful  hand  she  was  to  me,"  he  said,  "with 
the  work  she'd  be  doin'  on  the  farm — and  hadn't  I  the  promise 
of  Fennel  himself,  'twas  comin'  to  help  me  she'd  be  after 
she  was  married,  the  way  I  could  have  saved  meself  pay  in* 
for  labour  ?  Shure  God  knows  'twould  have  been  hard  enough 
as  it  was  and  isn't  she  gone  entirely  from  me  now  ?" 

With  grunts  and  shaking  breaths,  for  he  was  an  old  man 
and  the  years  had  given  him  a  weight  of  flesh  he  carried 
with  some  difficulty,  Shaughnessy  lurched  out  of  bed.  Cross- 
ing the  floor  in  his  naked  feet,  he  bent  down  and  with  his 
fingers  he  pulled  away  the  thick  skein  of  blood  from  the 
sheep's  nostrils. 


THE  MIRACLE  229 

"Let  ye  take  that,"  said  he,  "and  boil  it  down  in  a  sup  of 
new  milk  would  be  warm  out  of  the  cow.  And  when  ye're 
goin'  to  yeer  bed,  let  ye  open  the  door  of  the  house  and  put 
the  bowl  of  it  down  on  the  sill.  And  if  'tis  gone  it  is  in  the 
mornin'  maybe  'tis  that  will  pacify  Them  and  perhaps  then 
ye'll  be  findin'  her,  though  God  knows  I  wouldn't  say  the 
way  she'd  be  at  all.  I  would  not." 


FATHER  ROCHE  had  scarcely  gone  on  home  when 
the  news  was  broadcast  over  Ardnashiela.     Women 
gathered  at  their  doorways.    There  were  groups  stand- 
ing at  the  sea  wall.     Men  leaned  about  on  the  barrels  in 
Creasy's  house,  drinking,  but  with  no  sound  of  laughter  as 
they  talked. 

In  the  opinion  of  Mrs.  Troy,  who,  perhaps  because  of 
her  association  with  the  priests  who  always  lodged  in  her  cot- 
tage, had  little  belief  in  faeries,  it  was  as  great  a  pity  as 
any  that  Father  Costello  had  gone  away  to  Dublin. 

'  'Tis  not  himself,"  said  she,  "would  have  stood  idle  at 
corners  talkin'  the  trashy  things  they're  all  sayin'  down  the 
street.  Tis  out  and  lookin'  for  herself  he'd  have  been. 
Isn't  it  shame  that  man  Kirwan  ought  to  have  for  hisself 
the  way  he'd  be  standin'  at  Creasy's  talkin'  mad  tales  of  a 
man  he  saw  on  the  road  that  night  ?  Shure,  if  'tis  gone  she 
is  and  no  sight  of  her,  mustn't  she  be  somewhere  or  surely 
they'd  be  findin'  her  some  place  or  another !" 

The  conclusiveness  of  that  argument  convinced  her. 
Father  Roche,  whose  shrewd  comments  upon  character  some- 
how always  became  public  property  and  clung  to  people  like 
adhesive  labels,  had  once  said  she  was  the  only  civilised 
creature  in  Ardnashiela.  She  remembered  that  and  lived  up 
to  her  reputation.  Others  remembered  it  and  nodded  their 
heads  at  everything  she  said  as  though  it  came  from  the 
fount  of  wisdom.  They  nodded  their  heads  as  they  listened 
to  her  then.  But  it  was  not  the  common  sense  of  Mrs.  Troy 
or  the  calculated  opinions  of  the  profoundest  learning  could 

230 


THE  MIRACLE  231 

alter  one  point  in  the  fixed  and  narrow  compass  of  their 
beliefs. 

They  nodded  their  heads,  but  they  knew  well  what  had 
become  of  Mary  Kirwan.  It  was  doubtful  in  the  mind  of 
any  of  them  whether  she  would  ever  be  seen  in  that  place 
again.  And  if  it  was  her  escape  she  made,  or  was  sent  back 
from  where  she  was  gone,  it  was  no  gladness,  but  a  fear 
they  would  have  to  be  talking  to  her  or  looking  at  her  at  all. 

"Shure,  what  good  is  it  her  sayin'  the  Father  would  have 
been  lookin'  for  her !"  one  of  them  exclaimed  as  they  walked 
away  from  the  common  sense  of  that  sort  of  talk.  "Yirra, 
how  could  himself  be  findin'  her  more  than  another !  Doesn't 
the  world  know  'tis  in  the  thin  of  the  air  They'd  be  most 
times,  an'  if  'twas  seein'  her  himself  it  was,  and  he  makin* 
a  grab  at  her,  wouldn't  They  have  her  the  way  she'd  be  slip- 
pin'  out  of  his  fingers  with  all  the  curses  he'd  be  puttin'  on 
'em!  She  would  indeed!" 

Sergeant  McGrath  felt  it  his  duty  to  take  the  matter  into 
his  own  hands.  He  found  Kirwan  coming  away  from 
Shaughnessy's  door  and  drew  him  aside  into  a  corner  of  the 
street.  A  small  crowd  at  a  distance  stood  watching  them 
as  they  talked. 

"When  was  it  ye  missed  her  first  ?"  asked  McGrath. 

"Last  night." 

The  Sergeant  wrote  it  down  in  a  thumbed  and  dirty  note- 
book containing  at  one  end  statements  made  to  him  about 
strayed  dogs,  drunkenness  and  obscene  language  in  the  open 
street,  while  at  the  other  were  records  of  small  amounts  lost 
and  won  at  games  of  forty-five. 

"Why  didn't  ye  come  and  tell  meself  about  it  then?"  he 
continued. 

"Shure,  'twas  not  at  that  hour  of  the  dark  night  I'd  be 
trustin'  meself  to  go  out  at  all." 

"Why  not?" 


232  THE  MIRACLE 

"Faith,  I'd  just  come  in." 

The  Sergeant  lifted  his  shoulders  and  settled  himself  down 
to  a  closer  cross-examination.  By  the  time  he  had  extracted 
the  story  of  the  man  with  the  cloven  foot  and  the  game  of 
cards  on  the  stones  by  the  roadside,  his  mouth  was  wide 
open  and  he  was  wrestling  within  himself  between  the  in- 
herent superstition  in  him  on  one  side  and  the  official  capacity 
of  his  intelligence  on  the  other. 

"If  it  comes  into  the  court,"  said  he,  and  said  it  with 
dignity,  the  court  being  the  ultimate  destination  to  him  of 
any  matter  of  importance,  "they'll  not  listen  to  that  story 
at  all.  The  magistrate'll  wave  his  hand — like  that — "  he  gave 
ocular  demonstration.  "That's  what  he'll  do." 

"Shure,  he  can  wave  his  hand,"  said  Kirwan,  "and  he 
can  do  anny  thing  he  damned  well  likes,  but  'twas  meself 
playin*  the  cards,  the  time  I  saw  the  hoof  he  had,  peepin' 
out  of  the  leg  of  his  trousers.  An'  shure,  if  there  are  things 
like  that  in  the  world,  is  it  strange  at  all  the  faeries  would 
be  takin'  her?" 

The  Sergeant  was  loath  to  admit  it  was  not  strange. 

"But  I  won't  put  it  down  in  me  book,"  said  he,  "for  they 
wouldn't  listen  to  it." 

Feeling  that  some  questionable  opprobrium  was  cast  upon 
his  story  by  being  thus  omitted  from  the  book,  Kirwan  began 
to  lose  his  temper. 

"Well,  if  'tis  not  the  faeries  have  taken  her,"  he  said,  "will 
ye  tell  me  where  is  it  she's  gone  ?  She  was  milkin'  the  cows 
last  evenin'  an'  'tis  nowhere  in  anny  place  she  is  now.  Where 
is  she?" 

McGrath  confessed  himself  with  reluctance  as  unable  to 
answer  that  question.  Every  suggestion  that  came  into 
his  mind  was  over-ruled  by  the  prevailing  belief  from  which 
he  found  no  escape.  He  could  not  have  denied  that  he  had 
known  of  people  in  those  parts  who,  in  this  sudden  manner 


THE  MIRACLE  233 

had  disappeared,  returning  in  a  week,  a  month,  a  year,  and 
sometimes  more  maybe,  with  their  wits  lost,  babbling  like 
children  and  unable  to  give  any  coherent  account  of  where 
they  had  gone,  or  what  they  had  seen.  He  knew  of  one 
who  had  never  come  back  and  of  whom  all  trace  for  ever 
had  been  lost. 

Still  there  was  his  duty  to  perform  and  the  certain  dignity 
attached  to  it  he  could  not  afford  to  lose.  Wetting  his  pen- 
cil at  his  lips,  he  made  minute  enquiries  as  to  how  she 
was  dressed  when  last  seen,  whether  anything  had  hap- 
pened to  be  frightening  her  and  was  she  given  to  going 
off  like  that  for  long  walks  maybe,  the  way  she  might  just 
have  been  lost. 

"How  would  she  be  lost !"  shouted  Kirwan  in  the  exaspera- 
tion coming  easily  to  one  of  his  nature  when  submitted  to  a 
fire  of  questions.  "Isn't  the  place  open,  with  the  roads  about, 
the  way  ye  can  see  all  ways  for  miles  and  miles !  And  what 
the  hell  is  there  should  be  a  fright  to  her  ?  Isn't  she  goin* 
to  be  married  in  a  few  weeks  and  isn't  that  enough  for  a 
girrl  to  be  holdin*  to  where  she  is?" 

All  these  things  the  Sergeant  admitted  and  went  away 
with  such  information  as  he  could  get  and  none  of  which 
he  believed  was  of  any  use  to  him  in  such  a  case. 

Going  back  to  the  barracks,  he  called  out  Tim  Cotter,  the 
constable,  to  be  bringing  out  the  bicycles. 

"If  we  don't  get  off  up  the  hills,"  he  said,  "we  shall  be 
catchin'  himself  as  he  comes  away  out  of  Mass  at  Grange !" 

They  over-took  Father  Roche  on  his  way  back  to  Killan- 
ardrish.  With  the  stiff  brushing  of  his  eyebrows,  he  looked 
down  at  them  from  the  back  of  his  white  horse.  Having 
heard  the  plain  statement  of  the  case,  he  sat  there  pondering 
over  it  with  the  reins  loose  over  the  back  of  his  horse's  neck. 
At  last  with  a  slow  turn  of  his  eye  upon  them  and  leaning 


234  THE  MIRACLE 

forward  a  little  as  though  he  would  have  lowered  his  voice, 
he  said, 

"What  does  Kirwan  himself  say  about  it?  What  does 
the  fisherman  say?  What  do  they  all  say?" 

The  Sergeant  cleared  his  throat.  He  looked  at  his  note- 
book, but  read  nothing  in  it,  then  he  raised  his  head. 

"They're  sayin'  'tis  taken  bi  the  faeries  she  is." 

Father  Roche  set  his  gaze  into  the  Sergeant's  eyes,  which 
tried  to  meet  his  look,  shifted,  lost  their  balance  of  control 
and  fell.  When  he  raised  them  again  it  was  no  higher  than 
the  boots  of  the  Parish  Priest,  sunk  deep  in  his  stirrups. 
There  was  no  smile  on  Father  Roche's  face,  but  somewhere  in 
the  glint  of  his  eye,  there  was  a  glimmering  light  of  satisfac- 
tion. He  picked  up  the  reins  again  and  fitted  them  between 
his  fingers. 

"Ride  on  into  Doonvarna/'  said  he,  "go  to  the  police  there. 
Tell  them.  Ask  them  to  make  enquiries  at  the  station.  Give 
them  all  the  particulars  ye've  got.  'Twill  break  their  hearts 
when  ye  read  out  all  ye've  got  in  that  book.  Get  over  there 
and  come  back  to  me  this  evening." 

He  jogged  his  heels  into  the  flanks  of  the  white  mare  and 
he  rode  away. 


VI 

WHEN  Sergeant  McGrath  returned  that  evening  to 
Killanardrish,  he  brought  no  news  with  him. 
Nothing  had  been  seen  or  heard  of  Mary  Kirwan 
in  Doonvarna.  The  only  train  leaving  the  little  town  on  Sun- 
day was  that  going  by  a  circuitous  route  and  taking  many 
hours  to  reach  Dublin.  Amongst  the  few  passengers  that 
had  got  into  the  train,  there  was  none  answering  to  her  de- 
scription. Father  Costello  had  gone  by  it.  Taking  a  room 
at  the  Ship  Hotel,  he  had  slept  the  night  there  and  departed 
the  next  morning.  All  the  other  passengers  were  known 
to  the  station  master.  There  was  no  trace  of  Mary  Kirwan. 

The  Sergeant  had  questioned  people  on  the  road  as  he 
went  and  returned.  There  was  not  one  had  seen  her.  In 
obedience  to  instructions  from  Father  Roche  and  accom- 
panied, like  a  shadow  on  the  road  behind  him,  by  Tim 
Cotter,  the  constable,  he  went  North  the  next  day  to  Bally- 
brishlawn. 

The  result  there  was  the  same.  No  one  had  seen,  no  one 
had  heard  of  her.  At  every  cottage  on  the  road  they  had 
enquired.  The  same  answer  was  given  them. 

"There's  no  girrl  has  been  here  along  the  roads.  Wouldn't 
we  have  seen  her  if  she  had?" 

It  would  indeed  have  been  a  wonder  if  they  had  not. 
In  that  part  of  the  West  of  Ireland,  the  habitations  of 
human  beings  are  few  and  far  apart,  having  all  the  mys- 
teriousness  of  fortuity,  like  mushrooms  chancing  their  soli- 
tary life  in  the  wide  acres  of  the  green  meadows.  Here  a 
farm  and  there  a  peat-lifter's  cottage  with  great  wastes  of 

235 


236  THE  MIRACLE 

barren  and  uncultivated  land  in  between,  rocks  thrusting 
their  grey  heads  from  beneath  the  soil,  heather  and  ling 
growing  and  little  belts  of  wind-swept  thorn  trees.  The 
light  of  a  glow-worm  on  the  grass  at  night  can  well  seem 
to  a  lonely  traveller  the  welcome  beacon  in  a  cottage  window, 
can  well  draw  him  on  over  the  stony  land  and  the  desolate 
peat  bogs  to  find  a  shelter  for  the  night,  can  well,  when  it 
disappears  and  he  finds  the  bleak  land  all  about  him  with  no 
sign  of  living  man  or  the  roof  that  covers  him,  strike  the 
string  of  imagination  upon  that  delicate  instrument  of  his 
mind  and  set  its  vibrations  throbbing  with  the  wild  tunes  of 
fear. 

The  Sergeant  returned  from  Ballybrishlawn  with  no  news 
of  Mary.  There  as  well  he  acquainted  them  at  the  con- 
stabulary barracks  with  the  particulars  of  her  disappearance. 
Inevitably  into  his  account  of  it,  as  in  Doonvarna  too,  there 
had  filtered  fragments  of  Kirwan's  story  of  the  man  play- 
ing cards  with  him  on  the  road  that  night.  The  spirit  of  their 
beliefs  tinctured  it  all.  They  may  have  searched  and  en- 
quired, questioned  this  one  and  that,  but  underlying  all  their 
endeavours,  spread  the  sense  of  their  fatalism. 

What  was  the  good  of  looking  for  one  who  had  gone 
that  way?  Wouldn't  it  be  all  the  same  in  a  hundred  years 
whether  they  found  her  or  not?  And  where  was  it  a  girl 
would  be  going  at  the  time  of  her  marrying  to  be  disappear- 
ing the  like  of  that?  It  wasn't  like  a  woman  at  all  to  be 
going  on  that  way  and  if  it  wasn't  like  a  woman,  then 
what  was  it  like?  They  smoked  their  pipes  and  shook 
their  heads  over  it  across  the  barrack  fire  at  Ballybrishlawn 
and  if  they  did  not  say  what  they  thought,  it  was  only  because 
the  printed  regulations  of  the  Crown  were  always  there  upon 
the  walls  to  remind  them  what  they  were. 

North  and  South  and  East  across  the  country,  Fennel,  the 
fisherman,  wandered,  looking  for  her  too.  As  far  as  the 


THE  MIRACLE  237 

entrance  of  the  Gap  and  enquiring  amongst  those  few  scat- 
tered farms  at  the  foot  of  the  hills  of  Doon,  he  made  his 
search  that  had  no  impulse  in  it  to  discovery.  It  was  not  in 
a  wide  range  he  quested,  but  here  and  there  amongst  the 
pools  in  the  peat  bogs  and  through  the  long  spiked  rushes 
by  the  streams  that  gathered  out  of  the  hills,  as  though  she 
were  just  hidden  from  him;  as  though  it  were  her  body 
alone  he  expected  to  find,  believing  in  his  heart  that  her  spirit 
was  lost  to  him  forever. 

As  the  days  of  that  week  went  by  and  no  word  was  heard 
of  her,  it  was  less  and  less  that  he  looked  into  the  hidden 
places  and  further  that  he  wandered,  even  into  Ballybrish- 
lawn  and  beyond,  but  without  asking,  without  speaking  to 
any  one  of  what  he  sought.  He  was  indeed  seeking  no  longer 
but  roaming  merely,  with  no  will  in  the  dumb  courage  of  his 
heart.  Sorrow  had  met  him  at  the  door  of  joy  and  the  falling 
of  his  hopes  had  crushed  the  spirit  of  life  out  of  him. 

And  all  that  time,  Father  Roche,  secluded  in  Killanardrish, 
waited  for  whatever  news  there  might  be. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  week,  Mrs.  Sheehan  laid  a  letter 
on  his  plate  at  breakfast.  It  was  in  Father  Costello's  writing. 
Whenever  she  brought  him  a  letter,  she  lingered  with  trivial 
occupations  in  the  room  until  he  had  opened  it.  In  the  whole 
sixteen  years  she  had  been  there,  no  post  had  ever  brought 
any  communication  to  her.  If  she  had  relatives,  they  had  no 
wish  to  correspond  with  her.  She  could  have  had  no  interest 
outside  her  duties.  Like  the  Parish  Priest,  she  was  buried  in 
Killanardrish.  It  was  her  only  contact  with  life.  In  this 
respect,  the  post,  as  it  affected  his  calling  and  letters  from  his 
few  remaining  relatives,  was  the  only  post  she  knew. 

He  could  have  said  with  truth  he  had  no  friends,  certainly 
none  that  would  ever  bother  themselves  to  write  to  him.  So 
it  was  that  whenever  she  took  a  letter  for  him  from  the 
postman  who  drove  over  every  morning  from  Doonvarna, 


238  THE  MIRACLE 

and  whenever  she  gave  him  one  on  his  return  journey  in  the 
evening,  she  looked  closely  at  the  writing,  at  the  address 
of  those  that  went  away,  at  the  postmark  of  those  that  came. 
Finally  she  read  their  contents  in  the  face  of  Father  Roche 
as  she  lingered  in  the  room  while  he  perused  them. 

That  morning  she  lingered  until  there  were  no  more  trivial 
occupations  to  be  done.  As  long  as  her  ingenuity  provided 
her  with  the  faintest  justification,  she  waited  on  and  still 
Father  Roche  left  the  letter  lying  on  his  plate.  It  was  from 
Dublin. 

Associating  one  fact  in  her  knowledge  with  another  and, 
with  a  dim  recollection  of  having  seen  the  writing  before,  she 
had  correctly  judged  it  to  be  from  Father  Costello.  Some 
thought,  deeply  rooted  in  the  intuitive  functions  of  her  nature, 
was  rousing  her  curiosity  as  to  this  letter,  more  even  than 
when  she  had  known  him  to  receive  a  communication  from 
the  Bishop  respecting  his  continuation  in  the  parish  of  Ard- 
nashiela. 

When  she  had  settled  the  curtains  and  straightened  one  of 
the  blinds,  when  she  had  picked  up  a  thread  of  cotton,  a 
feather  from  the  brush  she  swept  with,  and  a  piece  of  paper 
from  the  floor  and  rolled  them  into  a  ball  in  the  hard,  thin 
palm  of  her  hand,  the  letter  was  still  lying  there  on  his 
plate. 

It  was  then  the  pale  blue  eyes  of  the  Parish  Priest  lifted 
from  his  ham  and  eggs  and  for  one  moment  dwelt  upon 
her.  She  was  equal  to  that  look.  In  this  one  concentrated 
and  centralised  capacity  of  life,  Mrs.  Sheehan  was  a  woman 
of  undeviating  purpose  and  infinite  resource. 

Reading  that  look  as  surely  as  a  blind  man  reads  the  raised 
letters  beneath  his  sensitive  finger  tips,  she  was  neither 
startled  nor  perturbed  by  it.  Seeing  a  little  tuft  of  hair 
beneath  the  table  from  the  old  spaniel  that  roamed  in  a 
blindness  of  age  about  the  house,  she  stooped  deliberately  and 


THE  MIRACLE  239 

picked  it  up.  Not  obviously  she  held  it  in  her  fingers  for 
him  to  see  before  she  pressed  it  away  into  the  collection 
of  litter  in  her  closed  hand. 

"That  dog's  losin'  his  hair  with  the  age  he  has,"  said  she, 
"I  must  take  and  brush  his  coat  out  in  the  yard." 

Not  till  then  did  she  leave  the  room  and  even  then  not 
without  a  last  studied  glance  at  the  table  for  his  comfort.  As 
soon  as  she  had  closed  the  door,  he  took  up  the  letter  and 
opened  it.  If  it  had  been  possible  for  his  pulse  to  beat  any 
the  faster,  it  would  have  done  so  at  that  moment.  The  faint 
throb  of  it  never  altered. 

After  the  formality  of  address,  the  letter  continued — 

"Perhaps  I  should  have  made  my  confession  to  you  as 
you  suggested  when  last  I  saw  you  at  Killanardrish.  I 
have  made  it  since — a  more  terrible  confession  than  I  should 
have  made  to  you  that  day  and  with  all  the  mercy  of  God, 
I  do  not  feel  that  the  sin  I  have  brought  to  another  and  to 
myself  can  ever  be  taken  from  me.  I  am  waiting  here  at 
the  Bishop's  discretion  and  I  understand  I  shall  most  likely 
be  sent  abroad.  Perhaps  you  will  have  heard  by  now  that 
a  new  curate  is  to  take  my  place." 

The  Parish  Priest  admitted  to  himself  it  was  a  plain  state- 
ment. At  least  there  was  no  unnecessary  emotion  about  it. 
He  did  not  whine  about  the  weakness  of  the  flesh.  He  did  not 
complain  of  the  just  retribution  that  with  the  sure  and  mer- 
ciful hand  of  the  Church  had  fallen  upon  him.  He  did 
not  eat  the  dust  of  humility  and  penitence.  Reading  the 
letter  again,  the  old  man  began  to  question  himself  whether 
in  that  letter  there  was  any  sign  of  penitence  at  all.  Except 
that  he  acknowledged  his  sin  and  felt  the  weight  of  it,  it 
seemed  as  though  he  were  considering  it  more  for  that  other 
than  for  himself. 

That  other ? 


240  THE  MIRACLE 

Putting  the  letter  away  in  his  pocket,  he  rang  the  bell. 
When  Mrs.  Sheehan  entered,  he  was  quietly  finishing  his 
breakfast. 

"D'ye  remember  that  man,"  said  he,  "came  one  day  about 
a  month  ago  to  see  me,  had  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  played 
with  it  the  way  it  might  have  been  an  accordion?" 

"Fennel — the  fisherman  from  Ardnashiela." 

He  nodded  his  head  with  approval  for  her  memory.  If 
there  had  been  the  quality  of  admiration  in  him,  he  would 
have  had  it  then,  but  he  was  much  more  concerned  in 
giving  her  the  impression  that  she  had  revived  his  memory. 

"That's  the  name  of  the  fella!" 

"What's  about  him?" 

"I  want  him  out  here  to  me.  Send  one  of  the  children  from 
the  cottage  up  the  lane.  If  he  comes  by  the  strand  he'll  be 
here  in  two  hours." 

"Have  ye  heard  something  of  that  girrl  ?"  she  asked  boldly. 

He  looked  with  the  directness  of  a  steel  blade  into  her  eyes. 
She  felt  the  sharp  point  and  met  it. 

"I  may  hear  something,"  he  replied,  "if  he  has  anything 
to  tell  me.  They  say  he's  been  roaming  the  face  of  the  earth 
since  last  Sunday." 

The  sharp  point  still  held  her.  She  knew  she  would  hear 
no  more  than  that.  Without  another  word,  she  turned  out 
of  the  room. 

Before  the  two  hours  were  passed,  Father  Roche  went  out 
of  the  house.  Mrs.  Sheehan  saw  him  go  and  knew  there 
was  to  be  no  meeting  with  Fennel  between  those  walls.  There 
was  admiration  in  her.  She  smiled.  Knowing  nothing,  but 
well  fed  now  with  nutriment  for  thought  which  was  as  much 
as  could  be  hoped  for  in  that  house,  she  went  on  with  her 
work. 

Between  Killanardrish  and  the  little  hamlet  of  Curragh, 
Father  Roche  met  Joe  Fennel.  The  fisherman  was  walking 


THE  MIRACLE  241 

with  the  fatigue  of  a  man  who  has  spent  the  last  substance 
of  his  energy.  As  they  met,  he  looked  up  at  the  Parish  Priest 
with  the  heavy  want  of  sleep  in  his  eyes  and  a  weight  of 
despair  that  dragged  about  his  lips. 

"Ye've  not  found  her?"  said  Father  Roche. 

"I  have  not." 

"Where  have  ye  looked  ?' 

He  mentioned  one  place  and  another  to  which  he  had  been. 
The  exhaustion  of  mind  and  body  was  heavy  in  the  lethargy 
of  his  voice. 

"Have  ye  been  up  in  the  hills  ?" 

"I  have  not." 

"There  are  cabins  and  small  farms  up  there  in  the  North 
where  she  might  have  gone." 

"Shure  that's  a  heap  of  miles  away,  Father." 

"Well — it  must  be  wandering  she  is.    Isn't  she  ?" 

"I  dunno." 

"What  d'ye  think  has  happened  her  yeerself  ?" 

"I  dunno." 

"Ah — man,  shure,  ye  must  think  something!  Is  there 
nothing  she's  said  to  ye  gives  ye  the  inklin'  of  a  thought? 
D'ye  think  it's  dead  she  is?" 

Fennel  lifted  his  eyes  wearily  and  gazed  at  the  priest. 

"Yirra,  what's  the  use  me  sayin'  what  I  think!  Wasn't 
it  moithered  ye  were  entirely,  the  last  time  I  came  out  here 
to  be  talkin'  to  ye." 

Father  Roche  nodded  his  head 

"That's  the  tale,  is  it?"  said  he.  "  'Tis  the  way  the  faeries 
have  herself  ?" 

The  fisherman  made  no  reply.  Of  what  use  was  any 
answer  to  that?  The  priest  had  his  learning,  but  with  all 
his  knowledge,  he  could  no  more  give  help  or  advice  here 
than  over  the  matter  of  the  lobster  pots.  He  turned  his  eyes 
away  and  looked  over  the  sea  and  was  silent. 


242  THE  MIRACLE 

"  'Tis  the  way  ye  think  she'll  never  come  back  ?" 

Father  Roche  received  no  reply. 

"What'll  ye  do  if  she  does  ?"  he  persisted.  "Is  it  treatin* 
her  like  an  outcast  ye'll  be,  for  'tis  little  mercy  or  kindness 
ever  I  found  in  the  hearts  of  those  would  be  believin'  in  the 
faeries,  good  or  bad?  What'll  ye  do  with  her  the  whole 
savage  lot  of  ye?" 

"  Tis  I'll  see  to  that,"  said  Fennel  and  it  was  the  first 
live  note  he  had  spoken  in  his  voice.  "She's  mine,  isn't  she  ?" 
he  added,  "whatever  way  she'd  be — isn't  she  mine?" 

Father  Roche  raised  up  his  hand  and  dropped  it  on  the 
fisherman's  shoulder. 

"God  help  ye,"  said  he.  "  'Tis  in  me  prayers  I'll  have  ye 
this  night — I  will  so." 


VII 

TEN  days  had  passed.  It  grew  beyond  all  doubt  in 
Ardnashiela  that  Mary  Kirwan  had  been  spirited 
away.  Fennel  at  last  abandoned  his  wanderings. 
As  though  returning  to  serve  out  a  sentence  of  life,  he 
came  back  to  his  nets  and  rowed  out  one  morning  round 
the  headlands  to  lift  his  lobster  pots. 

Kirwan  alone  amongst  them  all  preserved  a  hope  of  her 
return. 

He  had  told  no  one  of  his  visit  to  Shaughnessy.  Then 
one  evening  over  the  fire  in  the  fisherman's  cottage,  he 
spoke  of  it  in  a  rush  of  confidence  to  Fennel.  The  sheep's 
blood  and  the  new  milk,  boiled  together  and  set  out  on  the 
sill  of  the  door,  had  disappeared  by  the  next  morning.  The 
basin  was  empty.  No  wonder  he  had  hope.  Even  Fennel 
lifted  his  eyes  from  the  lethargy  of  their  gaze.  If  it  were 
possible  to  propitiate  the  powers  of  this  hidden  world  about 
them,  might  They  not  in  Their  turn  make  concessions? 

The  two  men  sat  there,  thinking  of  it  in  plain  terms  of 
human  barter  and  exchange.  Something  there  was,  that 
hidden  world  demanded  of  them.  There  was  no  denying 
that.  As  Fennel  thought  of  it,  he  remembered  that  even  the 
Parish  Priest  had  not  denied  it  when  they  had  spoken  to- 
gether on  the  strand.  Father  Roche  had  rigorously  opposed 
his  belief  that  by  those  same  unseen  hands  his  lobster  pots 
had  been  taken  from  him.  But  he  had  not  opposed  this. 
Who  other  than  Themselves,  beyond  that  thin  veil  of  wind 
and  light  and  darkness  and  sound,  could  have  taken  her 
away?  There  were  no  tangible  means  here  to  account  for 

243 


244  THE  MIRACLE 

her  disappearance  as  when  the  priest  had  talked  of  the 
thieving  French  trawlers  and  the  grasping  wash  of  the 
tides. 

It  seemed  to  the  fisherman  in  his  memory  of  that  meet- 
ing, that  Father  Roche  had  allowed  the  truth  of  what  they 
all  knew.  Had  he  not  laid  his  hand  on  him  in  a  blessing? 
Had  he  not  promised  to  have  him  in  his  prayers  that  night  ? 

Sure,  he  knew  of  course — he  began  to  say  in  his  mind  as 
his  thoughts  became  more  articulate — didn't  he  know  well 
'twas  taken  she  was.  And  was  there  anything  in  this  world 
at  all  a  man  had  that  he  could  say  was  belonging  to  him, 
when  always  there  was  Themselves  beyond  it  with  the 
power  to  take  and  keep  and  give  back  what  they  took  ?  And 
God  Almighty,  what  had  Himself  to  do  with  it?  Weren't 
They,  as  some  believed,  the  spirits  themselves  fallen  out  of 
Heaven?  Hadn't  he  heard  a  priest  say  that  once  himself? 
And  if  it  was  fallen  out  of  Heaven  They  were  and  wander- 
ing the  ways  of  the  'earth,  what  could  frighten  Them  and 
drive  Them  off  but  the  curse  of  God  itself? 

And  without  that,  what  could  a  man  do,  but  make  his 
peace  with  Them?  Perhaps  with  the t blessing  of  God  the 
priest  had  put  on  him  that  night  and  They  liking  the  little 
sup  of  food  was  put  out  for  Them,  perhaps  after  all  They 
might  be  giving  her  back. 

He  did  not  know  whether  he  most  wished  for  that  or 
feared  it.  The  thought  of  her  with  her  wits  gone  and  her 
beauty  disfigured  with  that  aimless  look  they  had  who  some- 
times came  back,  plunged  him  into  a  depth  of  sadness  from 
which  he  could  not  raise  his  head  with  hope. 

What  was  it  They  had  wanted  with  her?  He  asked  that 
of  Kirwan  as  they  sat  there  over  the  fire. 

"  'Tis  a  young  girl  has  not  been  touched  They'll  take," 
he  replied  as  Shaughnessy  had  told  it  him,  "  'Tis  a  young 
girrl  ready  for  her  bed  with  the  man  has  chosen  her  They 


THE  MIRACLE  245 

do  always  be  wantin'  for  the  child  she  could  give  Them- 
selves." 

Fennel  bent  his  head  and  rocked  himself  to  and  fro  where 
he  sat. 

All  he  had  thought  that  evening  came  out  in  the  truth  of 
what  happened.  There  was  a  man  came  wandering  over 
from  Doonvarna  to  Ardnashiela.  He  was  one  of  those 
clowning  men  who  go  from  house  to  house,  arraying  them- 
selves from  the  bundle  they  carry  in  the  bedraggled  gar- 
ments of  a  jester,  singing  songs  and  cracking  obscene  jokes 
between  the  fair  at  one  place  and  the  fair  at  another.  A 
penny  here,  a  penny  there,  sometimes  a  meal  and  sometimes 
a  night's  lodging  they  earned  for  themselves.  On  his  way 
from  Doonvarna,  he  had  been  up  in  the  hills  amongst  the 
scattered  farms  that  are  hidden  there  in  the  glens  and 
valleys. 

It  was  this  man,  when  he  heard  what  they  were  all  talk- 
ing of  in  Ardnashiela,  brought  news  of  Mary  Kirwan.  He 
had  heard  of  a  girl,  he  said,  was  seen  in  the  hills,  she  going 
from  one  place  to  another  asking  her  bread  and  offering 
the  work  of  her  hands  for  those  would  give  her  a  roof  over 
her  head  and  some  straw  to  be  sleeping  on. 

They  sent  for  Fennel  who  was  in  his  cottage  and  for 
Kirwan  too  and  stood  about  them  in  a  crowd  as  they  talked. 

He  had  not  heard  what  way  she  was,  but  that  her  clothes 
were  torn  on  her  and  the  soles  of  her  boots  broken  with  the 
long  walking  she  had  had. 

"Did  she  give  her  name  at  all  at  anny  place?"  asked 
Kirwan. 

"She  did  not,"  said  the  clown. 

Fennel  touched  his  arm. 

"Was  it  lost  in  her  wits  she  was?"  he  asked. 

"Shure,  what  sense  would  she  hev  to  be  wanderin'  like 


246  THE  MIRACLE 

that  with  a  house  and  good  food  and  she  starvin*  would  be 
tearin'  at  the  bread  they  gave  her  in  her  hands !" 

When  there  were  some  ready  to  go  with  Fennel  on  his 
search,  he  turned  round  upon  them  all  and  the  light  he  had 
in  his  eyes  drove  them  back. 

"Let  ye  go  on  with  yetr  talk,"  said  he,  "and  himself 
there  makin'  his  jokes  for  ye.  I'll  find  what  belongs  to  me. 
With  meself  alone  I'll  find  it." 

They  stood  in  a  group,  watching  him  as  he  went  up  the 
street.  There  was  no  new  life  that  was  in  him  as  he  walked, 
but  they  could  all  see  by  his  steps  that  nothing  would  stay 
him  in  his  walking  till  he  found  her. 

By  midday  he  had  begun  his  searching  amongst  the  hills 
of  Doon.  They  are  a  long  range,  rising  to  sharp  spurs, 
falling  to  deep  valleys  for  twenty  miles  inland.  Miles  dis- 
tant from  each  other,  the  farms  are  scattered  wherever  a 
moderate  pasture  is  to  be  found.  Even  there  only  the 
hardiest  breed  of  sheep  can  face  the  winter  storms  off  the 
Atlantic  and  a  cow  grazing  is  never  to  be  seen  except  in 
the  most  sheltered  valley  and  then  only  in  the  summer  and 
the  autumn  months. 

The  desolation  of  the  West  of  Ireland  broods  over  the 
crests  and  glens  of  the  hills  of  Doon,  a  solitary  desolation 
with  its  voice  in  the  screaming  buzzards  that  swoop  and 
hover  and  climb  the  air  in  eddying  circles  all  day  long 
amongst  the  crags.  In  some  of  the  valleys,  strewn  with 
fallen  rocks  from  the  heights  above,  a  littered  playground 
of  the  games  of  giants,  it  would  seem  as  if  the  feet  of  men 
had  never  trod.  Never  a  sheep  strays  there.  Never  a 
voice  but  that  of  the  wheeling  buzzard  is  heard  in  the  still 
heights  of  the  air.  For  an  hour  or  so  at  noon  the  sun  lights 
them  with  a  passing  warmth  and  the  shadows  fall  again, 
sweeping  up  the  sides  of  the  hills,  chill  and  blue. 

Before  the  night  had  fallen,  Fennel  had  found  the  first 


THE  MIRACLE  24? 

place  where  Mary  had  been  seen.  It  was  a  farm  house  in 
an  open  hollow,  free  to  the  sun  for  the  better  part  of  the 
day  and  leaning  against  the  hillside  that  rose  sharply  from 
the  walls  themselves  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

The  flames  of  sunset  were  burning  in  its  meagre  win- 
dows as  he  saw  it  when  he  came  round  an  outer  bend  of 
the  hills.  He  had  been  walking  for  six  hours  and  apart 
from  the  two  cabins  where  he  had  asked  his  questions  and 
the  one  farm  where  he  had  stayed  for  a  drop  of  milk  to 
quench  his  thirst,  he  had  seen  but  one  man  gathering  a  few 
sheep  on  the  slopes.  None  of  them  had  seen  or  heard  of 
any  young  girl  in  those  parts.  What  would  a  girl  want 
walking  there?  They  had  looked  at  him  queerly  and 
watched  him  away  from  their  doors  when  he  went. 

He  was  thinking  in  a  dull  wonder,  confused  with  fatigue, 
where  he  could  lay  his  head  that  night  for  the  sleep  he  felt 
coming  over  him  when,  turning  the  bend  of  the  hills  into 
the  open  hollow,  he  saw  the  farm.  His  feet  led  him  there. 
No  volition  was  in  his  thoughts.  It  was  his  body  seeking 
for  sleep.  His  mind  was  too  inert  to  care  whether  he 
rested  well  or  ill. 

A  dog  barked  in  answer  to  his  knocking.  A  moment 
later  an  old  man  opened  the  door,  but  offered  no  invitation 
for  him  to  come  within.  Fennel  stood  out  on  the  hillside, 
swaying  a  little,  like  a  drunken  man  who  is  fast  losing  all 
pride  in  himself  to  hide  the  stupor  of  his  condition. 

Not  until  he  had  explained  where  he  had  come  from  and 
his  purpose  out  there  in  the  wastes  of  the  hills  did  the  old 
man  admit  him.  Even  then  it  was  with  quick  glances  of 
suspicion.  He  behaved  like  an  animal  disturbed  in  his  lair, 
moving  here  and  there  about  his  room  and  watching  Fennel 
always,  who  neither  cared  nor  observed  his  manner  one 
way  or  another. 

It  was  little  the  old  farmer  had  seen  of  Mary.     Such  as 


248  THE  MIRACLE 

it  was,  he  told  in  short  statements  made  between  long  inter- 
vals of  silence  while  he  ate  his  food  and  later,  when  they 
were  sitting  over  the  fire,  while  he  sucked  at  his  pipe.  He 
was  as  uncommunicative  as  an  owl  in  a  barn.  Twenty-five 
years  he  had  lived  in  that  place  and  for  most  of  them  he 
had  been  alone,  raising  his  sheep  and  going  down  two  or 
three  times  a  year  to  the  fairs.  Between  one  fair  and  an- 
other, he  scarcely  saw  a  human  soul.  He  was  seventy-one. 
He  had  no  wish  for  company  now. 

"Shure,  what's  the  good  of  this  one  or  that,"  he  mumbled 
in  his  beard,  "wouldn't  they  be  grabbin'  from  ye  all  times? 
And  there's  little  a  man  can  spare  out  of  a  thin  field  of  grass 
and  a  few  sheep  wearing  down  the  hillsides  with  their 
eating." 

It  seemed  Mary  had  come  late  one  evening,  knocking  on 
his  door. 

"A  girrl  of  a  woman,"  he  described  her,  "with  a  long 
look  in  her  eyes." 

It  was  many  years  since  he  had  seen  a  strange  woman 
wandering  in  those  hills.  Indeed,  had  he  ever  seen  one  at 
all  ?  He  had  felt  the  want  of  shutting  the  door  in  her  face. 
Only  for  the  way  she  looked  at  him,  he  would  have  done  so, 
for  he  was  a  quiet  man  and  had  the  use  of  his  lonesomeness 
after  all  those  years. 

"When  was  this?"  asked  Fennel.  The  fear  that  was  now 
more  than  ever  in  him  to  be  finding  her,  alone  kept  him 
from  following  at  once  and  wherever  he  might  be  told  she 
had  gone.  His  fatigue  left  him  as  he  listened.  She  had 
been  there.  She  had  been  there  at  the  door  where  he  was 
standing  a  short  while  since.  But  how  long  ago  was  it  and 
where  was  she  now? 

He  had  to  repeat  his  question  before  he  could  get  an  an- 
swer. Then  he  was  told  it  was  more  than  a  week  ago. 

She  had  asked  for  a  bite  of  food,  a  sup  of  milk  and  some 


THE  MIRACLE  249 

place  to  be  lying  down  in  till  the  morning.  She  was  used  to 
the  work  on  a  farm,  she  had  said,  and  would  be  doing  any 
thing  he  cared  to  set  her  hands  to.  It  was  not  money  she 
wanted  or  any  real  thing  at  all  but  food  only  and  a  place  for 
the  sleep  was  hanging  on  her. 

"Did  she  say  where  it  was  she  was  going?"  asked  Fennel. 

She  had  said  no  more  apparently  than  just  that  she  was 
going  away,  but  where  from  and  where  to,  the  farmer  had 
not  learnt  in  the  short  words  he  had  spoken  to  her. 

The  fisherman  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  If  any  convic- 
tion of  his  beliefs  were  needed,  this  was  the  last  that  would 
be  given  him.  That  morning  after  the  threshing  feast,  when 
he  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  yard  she  had  been  eager  that 
they  should  be  married  soon.  If  it  was  seeking  to  go  away 
she  was,  what  else  could  it  be  but  Themselves  that  had  led 
her  astray. 

More  than  a  week  ago!  Where  was  she  now?  He  sat 
with  his  elbows  fastened  to  his  knees,  his  hands  clenched 
against  his  cheek-bones,  still,  as  if  he  had  been  chiselled  out 
of  wood.  He  said  no  other  word  and  waited  till  all  was  told 
him. 

The  farmer  had  given  her  some  food,  potatoes  he  had 
cooked  for  himself  and  milk  there  was  from  his  cow.  She 
had  sat  in  that  chair  where  the  fisherman  was  sitting  then. 
Her  clothes  were  good  on  her  at  that  time,  but  it  was  easy 
seen  there  was  little  dryness  in  them  for  it  had  been  misting 
and  wet  for  three  days  in  the  hills. 

He  had  asked  her  would  she  sleep  there  in  the  chair  where 
she  was  or  out  in  the  shed  by  the  yard  where  he  kept  his 
cow.  And  it  was  out  in  the  shed  she  said  she'd  go.  When 
she  had  found  a  piece  of  hay  for  herself  to  be  lying  on, 
he  left  her  there  and  it  was  little  comfort  he  had  in  himself 
that  night  to  think  of  what  a  girl  like  that  could  be  doing, 
wandering  in  the  hills,  or  the  way  she  might  be  putting  a 


250  THE  MIRACLE 

spell  on  the  place  with  the  strange  look  she  had  in  her  eyes. 

It  was  when  he  went  to  the  shed  in  the  morning  that  he 
found  some  food  cut  up  for  his  cow  and  the  beast  herself 
milked  with  the  milk  standing  in  a  bucket  against  the  wall. 
But  only  for  the  cow  and  a  small  cat  he  had,  the  shed  was 
empty. 

He  thought  she  had  surely  stolen  some  of  the  milk.  But 
when  he  took  it  into  the  house  and  measured  it,  there  was 
nearly  a  cupful  more  than  any  drop  he  had  got  out  of  that 
beast  since  she  had  calved  in  the  pitch  of  summer. 

'  'Twas  findin'  her  gone,"  said  he,  "and  more  milk  there 
in  the  bucket  than  ever  I'd  had  at  anny  time,  has  been 
botherin'  me  since  to  know  what  she  was  at  all." 

He  looked  across  at  Fennel  to  hear  what  it  was  he  could 
be  told  about  her.  The  fisherman's  head  had  sunk  down  be- 
tween his  wrists.  He  was  away  in  sleep. 


VIII 

WITH  the  daylight  that  came  stepping  from  one 
hill's  spur  to  another  down  the  whole  range  of 
Doon,  Fennel  left  the  farm  the  next  morning. 
Now  he  was  upon  the  path  of  his  quest.  By  noontime, 
when  the  sun  was  falling  in  the  valleys,  he  had  discovered 
evidence  in  three  more  places  of  the  way  that  Mary  had 
gone. 

Closer  and  closer  through  the  length  of  that  day  he  came 
to  her,  following  her  down  to  the  earth  on  which  at  last  he 
found  her. 

That  second  night  he  slept  in  a  shepherd's  hut.  An  old 
man  and  his  wife  lived  there  beneath  the  leaking  thatch. 
God  alone  knew,  he  told  the  fisherman,  how  he  scraped  to- 
gether the  means  of  life,  minding  sheep  for  a  man  who  lived 
in  the  townland.  The  old  woman,  his  wife,  sat  listening  to 
their  talking  and  said  no  word  all  the  hours  that  Fennel  was 
beneath  the  roof. 

It  was  only  two  days  before  they  had  seen  Mary.  The 
shepherd  was  on  the  hillside  minding  his  sheep  when  she 
appeared  out  of  the  crags  of  the  big  rocks.  At  first  sight  of 
her,  he  had  crossed  himself  and  sped  a  swift  prayer  to  the 
Mother  of  God.  Her  clothes  were  torn  on  her,  the  times 
she  had  fallen  climbing  over  the  sharp  stones.  Her  boots 
were  worn  the  way  the  soles  were  breaking  away  from  them. 
But  it  was  only  food  she  said  she  wanted  and  no  rest  at  all 
to  be  getting  on  with  her  walking. 

He  would  not  find  her  that  night,  the  shepherd  told  him, 
with  the  little  light  that  was  left  in  the  sky.  There  was  no 

251 


252  THE  MIRACLE 

,moon  at  that  time.  It  was  not  safe  for  a  man  that  did  not 
know  his  way,  walking  about  the  hills  in  the  darkness,  for 
there  were  deep  hollows  he  might  be  falling  into  and  lakes 
of  black  water  where  a  stone  that  was  flung  would  never 
reach  the  bottom  for  the  great  depth  they  had  in  them. 

So  he  slept  that  night  as  he  had  slept  before,  sitting  in  a 
chair  by  the  fire  with  his  head  hung  on  his  chest  and  his 
hands  folded  in  his  lap.  In  the  first  pallid,  grey  light  of  the 
next  morning,  he  set  out  again  into  a  mist  the  hills  had 
gathered.  A  dumb,  sensing  instinct  guided  him.  He  be- 
came as  a  dog  with  a  scent  in  its  nostrils.  Blind  reason  told 
him  she  must  continue  the  direction  she  had  chosen.  He  had 
no  thought  to  construct  that  direction  as  it  may  have  been 
in  her  mind.  Had  she  had  any  direction  at  all?  None  that 
he  could  imagine  or  suppose.  Yet  always  upon  one  course 
her  movements  had  seemed  to  have  been  made.  From  the 
different  places  where  she  had  been  seen  or  heard  of,  it  was 
persistently  away  from  Ardnashiela  she  had  gone.  Per- 
sistently, as  when  a  dog  runs  with  its  nose  to  the  earth,  he 
followed  that  course,  turning  now  to  the  right  and  now  to 
the  left,  wherever  there  was  a  hollow  or  a  glen  to  hide  her. 
But  it  was  always  away  from  Ardnashiela  he  went  and  al- 
ways the  traces  he  had  found  of  her  had  led  him  still  further 
on. 

For  the  whole  of  that  third  morning,  he  saw  no  living 
thing,  or  was  there  sight  of  any  habitation.  It  was  the  bar- 
ren waste  of  the  hills  the  shepherd  had  warned  him  of.  No 
food  was  there  for  beast  or  man.  Here  it  was  now  he  felt 
the  despair  of  finding  her.  From  all  the  description  the 
shepherd  had  given  him  of  her  condition  when  she  had  beg- 
ged him  on  the  hillside  for  a  piece  of  bread,  he  knew  she 
must  have  been  too  spent  to  reach  the  nearest  farm,  five 
miles  away  from  the  shepherd's  cottage.  But  where  amongst 


THE  MIRACLE  253 

the  stony  gaps  and  hollows  of  those  hills  could  he  look  for 
her? 

He  sat  down  on  a  stone  that  had  cut  itself  a  resting  place 
in  the  earth  and,  slowly  spreading  his  hands  over  his  face, 
he  began  sobbing  with  low  moaning  sounds  that  were  torn 
resistingly  from  him  in  that  vast  breadth  of  silence.  Fatigue 
of  mind  and  body  was  too  heavy  on  him  to  keep  them  back. 
The  more  he  struggled  with  them,  the  more  bitter  and  de- 
spairing was  the  wrench  of  sound  escaping  from  between 
his  hands. 

It  was  well  into  the  third  day  now  that  he  had  been  looking 
for  her  in  the  hills  and  it  was  the  fatigue  of  his  despair 
more  than  the  exhaustion  of  his  body  that  was  overcoming 
him.  For  a  long  while  he  sat  there  and  a  shame  of  his 
sobbing  kept  his  hands  pressed  hard  against  his  face.  It 
was  not  courage  that  had  come  to  him  when  he  rose  to  his 
feet  again,  but  a  greater  despondency  than  had  been  with 
him  before. 

He  felt  now  as  he  walked,  there  was  no  compassion  or 
mercy  in  the  world  at  all ;  that  not  only  the  unseen  powers 
about  him  but  the  hand  of  God  itself  was  cruel  and  malig- 
nant. In  all  that  time  since  Mary  had  disappeared,  he  had 
said  prayers  on  his  knees,  prayers  as  he  walked,  vague,  in- 
coherent mutterings  of  his  soul,  but  cries  he  felt  in  some 
consistency  of  his  belief  that  would  reach  in  an  intelligible 
fashion  to  the  hearing  of  God. 

So  far  now  was  he  past  the  mystery  and  mercy  of  prayer 
that  suddenly  as  he  was  walking,  he  stopped  his  feet  on  the 
hillside  and  flung  back  his  head  to  the  sight  of  the  sky. 

"God  damn  the  ways  of  God!"  he  cried. 

As  he  fell  to  a  trembling  at  the  sound  of  his  words  that 
had  burst  like  a  thunder  from  the  silence  about  him  rather 
than  come  from  himself,  he  saw  some  black  thing,  lying  on 
the  ground,  a  distance  away  from  him.  In  a  nausea  of 


254  THE  MIRACLE 

fear  he  walked  to  it  and  picked  it  up.  It  was  a  piece  of 
cloth — a  piece  of  a  shawl — torn  with  ragged  edges.  It  was 
from  Mary's  shawl.  He  had  no  reason  from  this  trace  of 
her  for  supposing  it,  but  he  knew  he  was  near  her  then. 

Quickly  here  and  there  he  began  running,  calling  her 
name.  All  the  full  energy  of  his  mind  for  the  search  had 
returned  to  him.  It  was  as  though  his  nature  had  gone 
back  to  the  merest  elemental  functions  he  possessed. 

"Mary !  Mary !  Mary !"  he  cried  out  and  more  than  ever 
it  was  like  a  dog  he  was,  lifting  his  voice,  hot  and  close  upon 
the  pursuit  of  its  quarry. 

In  a  sunken  pit  of  the  hills  where  the  night  before  she 
must  have  stumbled  and  fallen,  he  found  her  lying.  A  mere 
heap  of  clothes  she  looked,  with  her  face  turned  to  the 
earth  and  a  loose  arm  flung  with  her  fall  across  the  half- 
hidden  outline  of  her  cheek. 

He  knelt  at  her  side,  whispering  her  name.  She  did  not 
answer.  He  turned  her  gently  over.  Her  face  was  still. 
There  was  a  strange  peace  about  it  and  none  of  the  dis- 
figurement he  had  feared  to  find.  It  was  paler  than  he  had 
ever  seen  it  before.  That  was  all.  Hunger  was  in  it,  even  as 
she  slept;,  if  that  unconsciousness  was  sleep.  There  was 
pain  too  that  hurt  in  his  heart  as  he  looked  at  her.  But 
there  was  no  madness. 

He  lifted  her  up  in  his  arms.  She  lay  there  with  her 
dead  weight  and  her  head  limply  fell  from  the  neck  against 
his  shoulder. 

From  the  height  of  the  hills  where  he  stood,  he  could  see 
across  the  waste  miles  of  bog-land  to  the  green  country  of 
the  scattered  fields.  With  a  focussing  of  his  eyes  he  picked 
out  the  spot  where  the  walls  of  Kirwan's  farm  made  a  point 
of  white  against  the  edge  of  the  sea.  Ten  miles  he  reck- 
oned it,  going  direct  across  the  peat  bogs — ten  miles !  Turn- 
ing his  face  there,  he  settled  her  in  his  arms.  With  the 


THE  MIRACLE  255 

new  strength  that  had  come  to  him,  he  shifted  her  as 
though  she  were  a  baby.  Then  he  strode  down  the  side  of 
the  hill  with  the  exultant  joy  of  his  burden. 

Late  that  night  he  knocked  at  Kirwan's  door,  and  when 
they  took  her  out  of  his  arms  he  stood  leaning  against  the 
lintel  of  the  door  and  laughed  as  a  man  laughs  when  he 
has  won  a  game  of  chance,  or  cheated  the  devil,  as  they 
say. 


IX 

MARY  KIRWAN  lay  on  her  bed  for  three  days 
passing  and  repassing  from  the  faint  light  of  con- 
sciousness into  a  deep  obscurity  of  mind  and 
body,  more  profound  than  sleep  and  from  which  at  times 
in  their  ignorance  it  seemed  to  them  she  would  never 
return. 

"  "Pis  Themselves  still  have  her,"  said  Kirwan,  "and  only 
her  body  is  left  he  brought  back  into  the  house.  Yirra, 
wouldn't  it  have  been  better  if  himself  had  never  found  her 
at  all,  than  she  lyin'  there  through  the  days  and  nights  to 
be  tormentin*  us  all  with  her  sickness." 

For  those  three  days,  he  fretted  the  house  with  his  com- 
plaining in  the  hearing  of  all  but  Fennel,  yet  he  would  not 
go  near  her  himself.  There  was  a  fear  he  had  of  her  now 
and  could  not  hide  it.  Fearing  with  him  was  to  hate  the 
thing  he  feared.  His  tongue  was  bitter  when  he  talked  of 
her.  By  the  quiet  of  his  fire,  when  the  fisherman  was  not 
there,  he  openly  supposed  that  Fennel  would  never  marry 
her  now. 

"How  the  hell  would  he  know  what  he  was  gettin'  for  a 
wife!" 

This  was  the  summing  up  of  his  opinions  on  that  matter. 
He  would  have  married  no  girl  himself  under  such  circum- 
stances, but  he  swore  in  his  next  breath  he  would  make  the 
whole  village  drive  Fennel  from  the  street  if  he  deserted 
Mary  when  her  sickness  was  passed. 

There  was  no  foundation  in  anything  Fennel  had  said 
or  done  for  the  spleen  of  these  conjectures.  They  were 

256 


THE  MIRACLE  257 

the  voice  of  Kirwan's  fear  speaking.  He  had  no  regard  for 
the  justice  of  what  he  said.  Each  of  those  three  days  the 
fisherman  came  down  to  the  farm  and  sat  in  the  kitchen, 
his  eyes  never  leaving  that  door  leading  into  the  room  where 
Mary  lay,  his  hands  hardly  a  moment  still  in  their  readiness 
to  be  doing  any  service  Mrs.  Kirwan  might  require  of 
them. 

Here  as  well  as  when  he  had  sought  for  her  in  the  hills, 
he  was  like  a  dog — a  dog  guarding  a  door.  The  functions 
of  scent,  the  quick  ear  for  sound,  these  were  of  no  benefit 
to  him  now.  Like  a  dog  with  all  the  alertness  of  its  in- 
stincts in  the  open  field,  he  was  helpless  in  a  house  of  sick- 
ness. Like  a  dog,  whenever  Mary  passed  into  those  drift- 
ing moments  of  consciousness,  Mrs.  Kirwan  called  him  to 
the  door  to  see  her  and  much  in  the  manner  of  a  faithful 
beast  he  came,  inarticulate,  smiling  only,  a  smile  that  slowly 
left  his  lips  and  stole  out  of  his  face  when  Mary's  eyes  no 
more  than  stared  at  him  across  the  distance  of  the  room. 
As  they  closed  again,  he  would  turn  away  and  go  back  in 
a  patience  of  waiting  to  his  chair  in  the  kitchen.  So  it  con- 
tinued for  three  days. 

Those  moments  of  consciousness  to  Mary  were  moments 
of  torturing  pain.  With  each  one  as  it  came,  she  felt  as 
if  she  were  a  soul  returning  to  the  agony  of  life  from  which 
of  her  own  will,  she  believed  she  had  set  her  body  free. 
With  deep  breaths  of  relief  she  sank  back  into  the  dark- 
ness of  unconsciousness.  With  tremors  that  shuddered 
through  all  her  body  she  returned  to  those  instances  of  sen- 
sation again. 

The  moment  of  that  night  when  she  had  fallen  into  the 
hollow  in  which  Fennel  had  found  her,  had  seemed  the  last, 
the  end  of  suffering,  the  infinite  mercy  of  release.  Finding 
herself  stumbling,  then  falling  down  and  down,  she  had 
cried  out  in  her  voice.  It  was  no  cry  of  fear.  A  moment's 


258  THE  MIRACLE 

physical  revulsion  of  pain  and  violence  may  have  forced  a 
note  in  it.  Deep  in  her  soul  it  was  a  cry  of  welcome  for 
the  end.  The  darkness  like  water  had  poured  over  her. 
For  a  while,  as  she  lay  there  with  her  senses  lingering,  she 
was  just  conscious  that  an  unending  peace  was  coming. 
Then  it  had  swept  over  her. 

With  the  first  opening  of  her  eyes,  lying  on  that  bed 
where  she  had  thrown  herself  the  evening  when  Father 
Costello  had  left  the  house  after  the  blind  man's  story, 
where  she  had  wakened  to  reality  after  the  night  of  the 
threshing  feast,  she  knew  they  had  snatched  her  peace  from 
her.  For  a  while  it  came  back,  torturing  her  with  its  mercy. 
Then  consciousness  again,  her  mother  moving  in  the  room, 
the  sight  of  that  honest  man  at  the  door,  the  sound  of  her 
father's  voice  quickening  her  to  her  old  fears  of  him  across 
the  silence  of  the  house. 

How  could  she  bear  it !  How  could  she  come  back !  Why 
had  they  not  left  her  alone!  Who  had  found  her  there, 
where  she  thought  she  was  hidden  from  all  life  in  the  des- 
olate wastes  of  those  hills?  She  was  gone — firmly  she  had 
believed  she  was  gone  for  ever — with  the  joy  and  the  sor- 
row of  shame,  with  the  knowledge  of  her  good  and  her 
evil  and  no  regret  or  remorse  for  all  that  had  been.  She 
had  surrendered  herself  without  complaint  to  the  inevitabil- 
ity of  its  ending.  With  all  this  she  thought  she  had  de- 
parted from  them  there  in  Ardnashiela,  never  to  see  them 
again. 

In  some  vague  purpose  of  her  mind,  she  had  formed  the 
indefinite  plan  of  finding  work  to  earn  her  money  enough 
to  pay  her  passage  on  a  ship  to  America.  This  had  held 
her  together.  Just  this  ambiguous  project  had  had  sub- 
stance enough  in  her  mind  to  urge  her  on.  Each  day  it 
had  become  fainter.  She  had  known  she  was  nearing  the 
end  of  her  strength.  The  last  day  of  all,  before  Fennel 


THE  MIRACLE  259 

had  found  her,  it  was  death  only  she  craved  for  then.  And 
it  had  come.  That  was  the  moment  of  death,  the  utmost 
mercy  of  it,  when  she  stumbled  and  fell  in  the  darkness. 
She  had  escaped  from  them.  She  would  never  have  to  tell 
them  the  truth.  She  would  never  see  them  again. 

So  when  first  her  eyes  had  opened  in  that  room,  when 
first  she  saw  her  mother  moving  and  heard  about  her  in 
the  distance  the  familiar  sounds  of  the  house,  she  had  cried 
faintly  in  terror  and  turned  her  face  sharply  to  the  wall. 
When  Mrs.  Kir  wan  came  to  her  side  at  the  sound  of  that 
cry,  it  was  to  find  her  unconscious  once  more.  The  wrench 
of  that  moment  had  brought  its  own  release  with  its  pain. 
She  had  drifted  back  into  the  compassion  of  oblivion. 

But  gradually  as  the  days  went  by,  those  moments  of 
sensation  became  longer.  For  an  hour  sometimes,  and 
sometimes  through  the  length  of  the  night,  she  would  lie 
with  her  eyes  open,  scheming,  conceiving,  planning  what  it 
was  she  could  say.  For  surely  in  the  strange  wonder  of 
all  that  had  happened  to  her,  it  seemed  the  truth  must  be 
known.  There  was  her  child.  She  could  not  hide  that. 
There  must  be  a  child.  The  whole  passion  of  her  nature 
in  its  ignorance  told  her  that.  In  those  moments  with  the 
priest  she  had  been  lifted  in  an  overwhelming  ecstasy  to 
the  high  summit  of  human  experience.  What  other  result 
in  her  mind  could  there  be  than  this?  It  was  enough  that 
she  knew  it.  And  how  could  she  hide  it  from  them? 

One  thought  only  obsessed  her.  She  must  save  the  man 
she  loved. 

Gradually  through  those  days,  in  the  moments  of  her 
consciousness,  a  story  formulated  itself  out  of  the  con- 
triving of  her  invention.  She  had  been  for  a  walk  along 
the  Doonvarna  road.  In  the  Gap,  a  man  had  come  towards 
her  on  his  way  into  Ardnashiela.  Had  she  given  herself  to 
his  blandishments?  Had  he  taken  her  by  force?  She 


260  THE  MIRACLE 

cared  little  which  it  was,  yet  the  human  instincts  of  self- 
protection  prevailed.  Out  of  her  imagination  she  pictured 
him  with  meticulous  care.  There  was  a  shrewdness  and  a 
cunning  even  in  her,  she  had  not  known  she  possessed. 
Every  word  he  had  said,  she  prepared  in  her  mind.  The 
touch  of  his  hands,  his  violence,  the  horror  of  what  had 
happened,  the  dull  shame  when  it  was  past  had  sped  her 
with  terror  into  the  hills,  wandering  away  from  them, 
afraid  to  return.  All  this  she  visioned  and  stamped  with 
the  lasting  picture  of  it  upon  her  memory. 

These  inventions  came  to  be  a  fierce  joy  to  her,  a  joy 
of  vengeance  for  the  bitter  cruelty  of  those  who  had 
brought  her  back.  When  in  those  three  days  the  chilled 
sanity  of  her  normal  condition  returned,  she  often  feigned 
oblivion,  lest  they  should  begin  to  ask  their  questions  before 
she  was  fully  prepared.  And  then,  on  the  evening  of  the 
third  day,  when  her  door  had  been  left  open  and  that  into 
the  kitchen  also  stood  ajar,  she  heard  the  voices  of  her 
father  and  Fennel  talking  by  the  fire.  An  impulse  of  cu- 
riosity, combined  with  the  purpose  of  her  plan,  urged  her 
to  creep  from  her  bed  and  listen.  At  the  hinge  of  the  door 
she  stood,  holding  her  breath  and  hearing  her  heart  beats 
pulse  across  the  sound  of  their  voices. 

"And  what'll  we  be  doin'  with  herself  at  all,"  Kirwan 
was  saying,  "if  'tis  the  way  she  never  overs  it  and  she 
lyin'  there  through  the  long  stretch  of  the  days  and 
nights?" 

There  was  no  answer  from  Fennel.  It  was  her  mother 
who  replied  in  a  quietness  of  conviction: 

"Ah — shure,  she'll  over  it.  Wisha,  there's  many  have  a 
sickness  like  that,  the  way  the  length  of  the  days  would 
cure  'em  of  it." 

What  did  she  mean?     That  quietness  and  sureness  of 


THE  MIRACLE  261 

voice — those  words  she  had  said — "length  of  the  days 
would  cure  'em  of  it?" 

Could  she  know  and  did  she  believe  it  was  time  that 
would  heal  the  pain  in  her  heart?  Mary's  suspicions  were 
roused.  Here  she  came  to  that  first  acquaintance  with  con- 
science that  was  to  live  on  now  for  always  with  a  constant 
distress  in  her  soul.  She  trembled  as  she  stood  there  listen- 
ing. Could  the  blind  man  have  heard  that  night  of  the 
threshing  feast,  when  their  steps,  their  bodies  and  for  that 
one  instant  of  delirious  joy,  their  lips  had  been  together 
before  she  fell  in  his  arms?  With  all  the  sharpness  of  his 
remaining  senses  and  notwithstanding  the  darkness  that 
was  upon  his  eyes,  could  he  have  known  what  had  hap- 
pened then?  Could  he  have  spoken  of  it  to  her  mother? 
If  he  had  spoken  to  her,  might  he  not  have  spoken  to 
others?  Father  Costello  had  gone  away  the  same  night 
that  she  had  gone.  Had  he  come  back?  Would  he  ever 
come  back?  What  had  they  thought  of  his  going?  The 
voice  of  fear  lifted  now  in  tune  with  the  voice  of  her  con- 
science. They  both  fell  to  stillness  as  she  heard  Fennel 
begin  to  speak. 

"If  it  was  in  the  hills  They  took  her,"  he  said,  "and  I 
findin'  her  there  and  carryin*  her  here,  'tis  surely  givin' 
her  back  They  are,  and  whatever  sickness  there  is  is  on 
her,  there's  no  need  for  ye,  James  Kirwan,  to  be  spoilin' 
yeerself  with  the  fret  of  havin'  her  in  this  place.  'Twas 
her  word  she  gave  me  before  They  led  her  astray  and  I'm 
holdin'  to  that,  whatever  way  she  is." 

In  a  bewilderment  of  sudden  realisation,  Mary  crept  back 
to  her  bed.  Through  the  open  doors  from  the  kitchen  came 
the  ticking  of  the  old  clock  and  the  muffled  murmur  of  their 
voices.  All  her  impulse  of  curiosity  was  at  rest.  She  had 
heard  enough.  It  was  the  faeries  they  thought  had  taken 
her. 


262  THE  MIRACLE 

Knowing  all  she  knew  and  confronted  in  this  manner 
with  the  merciful  error  of  their  beliefs,  she  found  herself 
suddenly  wondering  which  was  true  and  which  was  false. 

Was  this  Their  meaning?  Was  this  what  had  happened 
to  Shawn  Geoghan's  wife?  Was  it  life  or  love  or  good 
or  evil  that  took  people  away,  as  she  had  been  taken?  Or 
were  there  faeries  indeed  as  she  had  always  believed  there 
to  be? 

Her  mind,  her  intelligence,  failed  her  to  pursue  the 
thoughts  that  crowded  by.  She  lay  in  the  darkness  there  in 
her  bed,  knowing  but  one  thing  in  any  certainty  of  com- 
prehension. 

There  was  no  need  for  the  lies  of  her  story.  Was  she 
glad  of  that?  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was;  yet  now  again 
her  conscience  was  stirring  to  a  comfortless  awakening. 
What  was  she  doing?  She  was  letting  them  tell  the  lie—- 
the lie  of  their  beliefs.  What  was  there  wrong  in  that? 
Something  seemed  wrong,  yet  she  could  not  discover  how. 
One  certain  thing  there  was.  The  truth  must  be  kept  from 
them.  That  she  did  not  question.  Then  why  not  let  them 
think  on  what  they  believed.  Was  it  because  it  was  easier  ? 
Did  her  conscience  torment  her  with  that? 

She  drifted  into  a  dazed  confusion  of  thought.  They 
believed  the  faeries  had  taken  her.  Well — they  believed. 
Let  them  believe. 

Sleep  came  and  parted  her  from  her  conscience. 


MARY  was  sitting  up  in  bed  the  next  morning  when 
her  mother  came  into  the  room. 
Mrs.  Kirwan  smiled.    There  was  the  same  dis- 
tance in  her  smile,  the  same  remoteness  about  her  eyes.     If 
there  was  anything  she  knew,  neither  Mary  nor  any  other 
living  soul  could  have  read  it  there  in  her  face. 

"Didn't  I  know  ye'd  over  it,"  she  said  and  she  seated 
herself  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  steadying  her  eyes  on  Mary's 
face  with  that  inscrutable  expression  on  her  own  which 
always  had  seemed  vacant  and  meaningless  till  now. 

With  this  new  life  of  Mary's  conscience  that  had  slept 
when  she  slept  and  wakened  with  her  when  she  awoke,  the 
old  world  that  had  been  about  her  was  altered,  transformed. 
All  truly  was  as  she  had  left  it.  What  seemed  to  have 
happened  was  as  if  the  light  which  once  had  presented 
everything  to  her  perceptions,  fell  now  conversely  upon  all 
she  saw.  No  more  than  in  the  sound  of  his  voice  and  the 
few  words  she  had  heard  him  say  in  the  kitchen,  she  beheld 
her  father  differently.  Even  Fennel,  with  his  simple  hon- 
esty, was  not  the  same.  From  the  dim  and  indiscernible 
woman,  her  mother  had  suddenly  come  forth  to  her  in  the 
sharpness  of  light.  It  was  not  wholly  that  Mary  under- 
stood her,  but  that  instead  of  fading  away  into  an  obscurity 
of  dull  shadow,  she  saw  her  now,  invested  in  poignant 
meaning,  clear  and  defined,  but  beyond  the  capacity  of  her 
analytical  investigation. 

It  was  life  itself  that  had  educated  her.  All  in  that  short 
time,  she  had  passed  through  the  inflexible  school  of  expe- 

263 


264  THE  MIRACLE 

rience,  swiftly  fashioned  by  it,  remoulded,  re-made — a  dif- 
ferent being  in  her  soul's  vision  from  that  girl  who  had 
milked  her  father's  cows  and  danced  with  quick  laughter 
to  the  sound  of  the  fiddle  at  the  threshing  feasts.  In  mental 
compound  she  was  the  same.  She  had  been  taught  not  how 
to  think,  but  how  to  feel,  and  all  the  equipment  of  intel- 
ligence she  possessed  sharpened  and  refashioned  itself  for 
the  change  that  had  come  to  her. 

They  had  brought  her  back  from  the  merciful  release 
of  death.  No  thought  came  to  her  of  seeking  to  escape 
them  again,  but  life  had  no  longer  any  meaning  for  her. 
One  thing  alone  held  her  to  a  clear  purpose  of  being.  She 
had  heard  herself  crying  it  aloud  in  her  dreams;  through 
every  waking  hour  it  sounded  itself  in  her  ears.  They 
should  never  know!  Never  should  they  know  the  truth. 
She  had  no  doubt  of  her  power  or  her  endurance  against 
all  suspicion  to  keep  that  from  them. 

When  her  mother  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  her  bed  and 
the  impassivity  of  her  eyes  with  the  faint  smile  that  played 
about  them  fell  like  a  shadow  upon  Mary's  eyes,  she  met 
their  look  with  the  steady  gaze  of  her  soul's  assurance. 
Whatever  that  look  might  mean,  she  could  oppose  it.  Even 
when  Mrs.  Kirwan  in  that  empty  quiet  of  her  voice  asked 
her  what  it  was  had  taken  her  up  there  into  those  starving 
gaps  of  the  hills,  though  her  breath  caught  as  she  drew  it 
and  in  her  throat  she  swallowed  the  swift  rising  of  her 
fear,  it  was  still  with  all  the  outward  signs  of  composure 
and  a  quick  assumption  of  perplexity  that  she  made  her 
reply. 

"Was  it  in  the  hills  they  found  me?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Kirwan  told  her  the  story  of  Fennel's  search 

"  'Twas  ten  miles  he  carried  ye  in  his  arms,"  she  con- 
cluded. "Wasn't  it  comin'  to  the  door  here  he  was  one 
night,  with  yeerself  the  weight  of  a  dead  thing,  the  way 


THE  MIRACLE  265 

he  was  broken  entirely  to  be  holdin'  ye.  'I  have  her  back 
from  Them,'  he  said,  and  there  was  every  one  of  us  heard 
him  but  himself,  he  laughin'  and  sittin'  down  like  a  man 
would  never  be  risin'  to  the  day  again." 

This  was  the  new  Fennel  she  was  finding  with  greater 
pity  than  she  had  ever  felt  for  him  before  and  a  clearer 
warmth  of  perception  in  her  understanding.  She  remem- 
bered the  distant  sight  she  had  had  of  the  farm  that  day 
which  the  night  had  ended  for  her.  That  was  the  last 
vision  she  had  believed  she  would  ever  have  of  Ardnashiela, 
He  had  carried  her  from  there.  In  his  arms  he  had  car- 
ried her.  Her  eyes  glittered  and  her  lip  trembled.  Other 
arms  had  held  her.  It  was  that  she  remembered.  It  was 
because  of  that  she  understood. 

"What  brought  ye  that  way  at  all?"  asked  Mrs.  Kirwan 
without  the  note  of  persistence. 

"I  was  walkin'." 

"Where?" 

"On  the  road  to  Doonvarna." 

"Shure,  why?" 

"Faith,  I  dunno.  'Twas  walkin'  I  was  when  the  work  was 
finished  and  there  was  nothin'  to  be  doin'  in  the  house." 

"What  happened  ye  then?" 

The  glitter  in  Mary's  eyes  gave  swift  place  to  a  dull 
resistance. 

"Yirra,  I  dunno  what  happened  me.  Was  it  knowin'  any- 
thing at  all  I  was  when  he  found  me?" 

"Ye  were  not — but  hadn't  ye  been  walkin'  ten  days  and 
more  in  the  hills,  the  time  ye  were  askin'  a  drop  of  milk 
and  a  bit  of  bread  in  one  place  and  some  straw  to  be  lyin' 
on  in  another?  Wasn't  it  findin'  it  that  way  himself  came 
up  with  ye?" 

The  impassive  eyes  were  still  dwelling  upon  her.  The 
quiet  incurious  voice  was  beginning  to  beat  like  a  pulse  in 


266  THE  MIRACLE 

her  brain.  With  the  fatigue  and  weakness  of  body  that 
was  still  fretting  her  as  she  lay  there,  she  felt  herself 
assailed  by  the  even  flow  of  these  questions.  It  was  like 
water  dropping  with  a  regular  and  unceasing  patter  as  it 
fell.  She  knew  she  was  not  nerved  then  to  resist  its  grad- 
ual attrition.  In  the  end  it  would  wear  away  the  stone  of 
her  reserve. 

"What  is  it  ye're  askin'  me  for!"  she  cried  out.  "How 
would  I  know  what  happened  me?  Wasn't  it  walkin'  I  was 
— that's  all  I'd  know  against  the  time  I'd  be  wakin'  up  here 
in  the  bed.  'Tis  the  wits  ye  think  I've  lost  on  me,  maybe. 
Well — maybe  it  is!  Shure,  God  knows  what  might  happen 
to  anny  one  in  the  silence  of  that  place!" 

She  flung  herself  down  in  a  passion  of  resentment  upon 
her  pillow  and  buried  her  face  from  the  quiet  look  of  her 
mother's  eyes. 

Mrs.  Kirwan  stood  up  from  the  bed. 

"God  help  ye,"  she  said.  "  'Tis  queer  indeed  the  ways 
He  have  with  all  of  us.  Shure,  the  wits  were  gone  from  ye 
— they  were  of  course.  Isn't  it  easy  they  be  goin'  from  a 
woman  and  a  hard  life  indeed  for  those  would  be  brought 
back?" 

In  the  muffled  retreat  of  her  pillow,  Mary  heard  her. 
She  heard  her  leave  the  room,  never  to  know  what  that 
strange  woman  had  meant  by  her  words,  the  last  she  ever 
spoke  to  her  daughter  about  those  days  of  her  disap- 
pearance. 

Closing  the  door  of  Mary's  bedroom,  she  went  out  into 
the  kitchen.  It  was  early  in  the  day,  but  Fennel  was 
already  waiting  there. 

"She's  overed  it,"  said  Mrs.  Kirwan  indifferently. 

He  thanked  God  with  more  than  the  words  that  sprang 
from  him. 

"Can  I  see  herself  so?"  he  asked. 


THE  MIRACLE  267 

She  nodded  her  head  to  the  door. 

"Let  ye  mind,"  said  she  as  he  went.  "Let  ye  mind  not  to 
be  askin'  herself  the  way  They  took  her  that  night.  'Tis 
light  like  a  feather  itself  her  wits  are.  Shure,  ye  would 
blow  them  away  with  a  word  if  ye  questioned  her.  And 
don't  be  frettin*  her  with  the  word  she  gave.  Let  herself 
speak  that  if  she's  a  mind  for  it.  Those  the  faeries  have 
taken  are  queer  when  they  come  back — 'tis  queer  they  are 
for  a  long  time.  Why  wouldn't  they?  Yirra,  God  help 
them — why  wouldn't  they?" 

He  took  the  handle  of  the  door  and  turned  it.  Stifling 
the  heavy  fall  of  his  feet  to  the  stillness  that  had  come  about 
his  heart,  he  crept  into  the  room, 


XI 

FENNEL  closed  the  door.  Mary  was  still  lying  with 
her  face  pressed  against  the  pillow.  He  waited. 
Her  bare  arm  lay  out  on  the  bed.  Her  hair  was 
about  her  shoulders.  He  had  plucked  her  back  to  him 
from  the  world  beyond  the  thin  veil  of  wind  and  light.  She 
was  his.  He  stood  there  with  a  great  longing  in  him  for 
words  that  had  a  meaning  for  the  surging  sense  of  his 
gratitude.  He  knew  none.  She  was  there,  back  again  out 
of  the  dark  emptiness  of  those  days  when  he  was  searching 
in  a  deserted  world.  There  was  no  wandering  in  her  mind 
to  be  disfiguring  her.  She  was  the  same  as  when  that 
time  of  their  first  meeting  he  had  thought  there  was  no 
hope  in  the  world  for  any  man  to  be  claiming  her.  One 
day  when  her  health  came  back,  there  would  be  the  same 
look  of  kindness  in  her  eyes.  He  would  come  back  from 
his  fishing  and  find  her  at  his  open  door.  She  would  be 
beside  the  table  with  him  as  they  ate  their  food.  By  the 
fire  she  would  sit  with  him  and  there  would  be  no  more 
lonesomeness  in  the  house. 

His  eyes  rested  on  her  there  to  assure  him  of  the  truth 
of  it  all.  There  she  was  lying.  It  was  true.  When  she 
looked  up  from  her  pillow,  the  remembrance  of  him  would 
be  coming  back  into  her  eyes.  She  had  passed  the  hours 
of  her  sickness.  She  was  well  again. 

With  a  sudden  voice  of  memory,  he  heard  himself  cursing 
the  ways  of  God  on  the  hillside.  Remorse  shook  him. 
There  was  a  swift  alarm  in  his  heart  to  think  how  that 
curse  might  fall  upon  himself.  Out  of  the  silence  of  his 

268 


THE  MIRACLE  269 

standing  there,  he  moved  quickly  to  the  side  of  the  bed 
and  fell  clumsily  upon  his  knees.  When  Mary  looked  up, 
his  head  was  thrust  into  his  hands  that  were  buried  in  the 
clothes  of  the  bed. 

When  he  had  remained  there  some  little  time,  she  raised 
her  hand  without  thought  of  her  reason,  but  just  because 
a  sudden  gentleness  had  come  to  her,  seeing  him  there  at 
his  praying — she  raised  her  hand  and  laid  it  on  his  head. 

"What  is  it  ye  have  in  yeer  prayers?"  she  whispered. 

He  looked  up.  It  was  this  gentleness  from  her  he  had 
known  was  coming  to  him.  The  faint  touch  of  her  hand 
awed  him.  Had  the  little  painted  statue  of  the  Virgin  in 
the  chapel  descended  from  Her  altar  and  laid  her  hand  on 
him  he  could  scarcely  have  felt  more  subjection  of  humility. 

"I  cursed  the  ways  of  God,"  he  said,  and  told  her  all 
the  despair,  the  hope,  the  agony  of  mind,  the  fears  he  had 
had  when  the  faeries  had  taken  her  from  him. 

Without  comment  or  question,  in  a  dumb  silence  of  won- 
der at  the  endurance  in  his  heart,  she  lay  on  her  pillow 
listening  to  the  simple  story  of  his  belief  and  the  fate  of 
her  they  all  accepted  in  the  undoubting  sincerity  of  their 
minds. 

Scarcely  did  she  reckon  the  effect  it  had  upon  her.  She 
did  not  realise  how  still,  with  every  word  of  his  story,  she 
was  being  submitted  to  the  education  of  life;  nor  did  she 
comprehend  the  might  and  meaning  of  those  forces,  power- 
ful beyond  all  her  conception,  working,  actuating,  controll- 
ing them  at  the  root  of  their  beliefs. 

It  was  not  laughter  she  felt  when  she  heard  the  story 
of  the  man  with  the  cloven  foot,  who  had  played  at  cards 
with  her  father  on  the  road,  that  night  of  her  disappear- 
ance. Yet  she  could  have  laughed,  shrilly,  hysterically, 
with  no  merriment.  Her  fingers  gripped  in  the  substance 


270  THE  MIRACLE 

of  the  pillow  beneath  her  head  to  keep  that  laughter  from 
her  lips. 

Back  again  and  again  across  her  thoughts  as  she  listened 
to  him,  came  the  memory  of  Father  Costello's  words  to  her 
that  day  in  the  kitchen  with  the  shame  he  had  flung  at  her 
for  believing  the  story  of  Shawn  Geoghan's  wife. 

There  were  no  faeries!  There  was  no  unseen  world 
beyond  them!  She  did  not  argue  it  with  herself.  She 
knew  it  as  she  heard  the  story  of  her  going  that  stumbled 
from  Fennel's  lips.  Life,  if  that  was  life — what  had  hap- 
pened to  herself  and  she  knew  must  happen  to  others — 
this  was  what  lay  beyond  them  all;  this  was  what  took 
them  away;  this  was  what  troubled  some  the  way  their 
wits  seemed  to  be  gone  from  them,  who  had  mad  laughter 
in  their  eyes  and  whose  lips  babbled  the  foolishness  of 
words. 

She  knew  then  how  nearly  that  had  been  the  way  with 
her.  Another  day  in  those  hills  and  reason  surely  would 
have  left  her.  No — she  did  not  believe  in  faeries  any 
more.  Then  what  was  there  in  which  she  could  believe? 
This,  in  a  sudden  illumination  of  thought  she  asked  her- 
self, pointing  the  question,  an  accusing  ringer,  at  her  heart. 

She  believed  in  the  priest.  She  believed  in  all  the  joy 
and  pain  and  suffering  and  ecstasy  she  had  felt  that  night 
in  his  arms.  She  believed  in  the  child  she  knew  must  be 
the  meaning  of  all  that  had  happened  to  her.  If  that  was 
life — then  her  beliefs  lay  there,  for  the  need  of  belief 
pressed  hard  upon  her.  Without  it,  the  thought  of  the 
days  and  years  had  nothing  but  terror  for  her  soul.  There 
was  the  Almighty  God  and  the  pity  and  mercy  of  the  Vir- 
gin Mary.  But  could  they  bring  him  back  to  her?  Would 
she  ever  hear  again  the  words,  burning  with  unbelievable 
wonder,  so  utterly  new  and  unknown  to  her,  he  had  cried  in 
her  ears  that  night  in  the  darkness  of  the  hills?  She  knew 


THE  MIRACLE  271 

she  could  never  hear  them  from  him  or  any  man  again. 
Was  it  through  all  of  time  she  must  go  on  believing  in  the 
silence  that  would  be  about  her?  Could  that  belief  con- 
tinue to  uphold  her  until  they  brought  her  body  to  lay  it 
away  in  that  ground  up  on  the  hill? 

In  the  midst  of  Fennel's  story,  she  broke  into  a  terror  of 
weeping.  He  stopped  at  once,  amazed  and  concerned.  He 
had  said  too  much.  Not  once  had  he  questioned  her.  But 
he  had  said  too  much.  This  was  the  lightness  of  her  wits 
that  had  blown  away  with  the  words  of  his  talking. 

"Oh,  shure,  God  help  me — 'tis  a  fool  I  am !"  he  muttered 
helplessly.  He  stared  down  at  her,  sobbing  convulsively, 
wondering  what  it  was  he  could  do  when,  bewildering  him 
with  the  surprise  of  it,  she  turned  suddenly  in  the  bed  and 
flung  her  arms  about  him.  He  had  a  quick  sight  of  her 
face  stained  with  tears  and  the  next  moment  it  was  hidden 
with  the  mass  of  her  hair  against  his  coat.  Both  her  arms 
and  her  hands  were  clutching  at  him.  She  was  crying  in 
an  agony  like  a  child  in  mortal  dread.  He  tried  to  listen 
to  what  she  was  saying.  Her  sobs  muffled  and  choked  the 
sound  of  her  words. 

"Keep  me!  Keep  me!"  he  thought  he  heard  her  say 
and  in  a  distress  of  perplexity  he  looked  about  him. 

Was  it  They  were  trying  to  take  her  from  him  then? 
"Keep  me — keep  me!"  What  did  she  mean  but  that?  And 
then  it  seemed  she  was  begging  him  to  hold  her,  close  and 
fast  in  his  arms.  If  that  could  keep  her  from  Them,  there 
was  no  man's  arms  so  strong  for  holding  as  his.  The  iron 
muscles  flexed  and  hardened  as  he  caught  her  to  him.  Not 
one  thought  of  passion  had  he  as  he  felt  the  softness  of  the 
body  he  had  in  his  arms.  Closely  and  with  no  yielding  of 
his  grasp,  he  held  her  to  him  till  her  sobs  broke,  shivered 
and  died  away  and  she  was  lying  still  like  a  child  saved 
from  the  terror  of  darkness  against  his  breast,  with  faint 


272  THE  MIRACLE 

intaken  breaths  that  told  the  passing  of  the  storm  about  her. 

"Is  it  the  way  ye're  goin'  to  marry  me  after  all  that  hev 
happened  me?"  she  asked,  her  voice  still  broken  with  quick, 
involuntary  breaths.  "Is  it  ever  a  girrl  has  been  taken  a 
man  would  wish  to  be  livin'  with  through  the  stretch  of 
his  days?" 

"I  dunno  what  men  there  are,"  said  he,  "would  give  up 
the  peace  that  was  gone  from  them,  once  they  had  it  back 
again  in  the  holt  of  their  arms." 

She  trembled,  partly  in  gratitude,  mostly  in  fear.  The 
utmost  was  yet  for  knowing.  Nothing  could  shake  her  con- 
viction she  was  going  to  have  a  child.  It  was  a  truth,  an 
indelible  reality  to  her.  She  allowed  no  doubt  of  it  in  her 
mind.  No  woman  who  had  known  what  she  had  known, 
who  had  been  carried  to  that  high  crest  of  joy,  could  de- 
scend alone  the  same  woman  she  had  been. 

Would  his  belief  encompass  that?  She  slipped  with  a 
quick  determination  out  of  his  arms.  It  must  be  then  he 
must  know;  better  then  than  dragged  from  her  later.  She 
did  not  wish  to  hide  it.  There  was  no  alarm  in  her  to  con- 
ceal that  which  must  ultimately  be  known.  They  should 
never  have  the  truth,  but  this  must  be  heard. 

With  a  look  in  her  eyes,  now  bright  with  hardness  to 
encounter  all  that  might  befall  her,  she  told  him  the  thing 
her  instinct  knew. 

Strangely  to  him  it  seemed  she  told  it.  He  thought  her 
defiance  was  that  lingering  of  the  spell  they  had  put  upon 
her.  If  for  one  instant  the  truth  had  ever  occurred  to  him, 
it  would  have  been  shame  he  would  have  expected  in  a 
woman  with  such  a  confession  as  that.  But  not  for  one 
moment  did  it  enter  his  thoughts.  Nothing  could  alter  his 
belief  of  the  power  that  unseen  world  had  over  the  ways  of 
men.  Something  was  demanded  of  them.  It  took  away 


THE  MIRACLE  273 

and  it  gave  back.  In  all  their  lives  it  swayed  with  a  mean- 
ing there  was  not  one  who  could  explain. 

She  had  been  taken  by  Them.  However  long  the  days 
had  been  when  she  was  away,  it  was  few  they  were  for 
any  girl  to  be  having  such  knowledge  of  herself  as  this. 
How  could  she  have  learnt  it,  unless  it  was  away  with 
Themselves  she  had  been?  He  neither  argued  this  nor 
did  he  hear  one  conscious  utterance  of  it  in  his  thoughts. 
It  was  that  which  Shaughnessy  had  said  They  had  wanted 
with  her.  What  man  was  it  could  feel  he  had  been  robbed 
by  Them?  They  had  given  her  back.  She  was  there  to 
the  touch  of  his  hand  with  the  kindness  of  life  she  could 
still  be  bringing  to  him. 

He  looked  back  into  the  defiance  of  her  eyes  and,  as 
though  he  were  speaking  of  a  world  of  time  behind  them, 
he  said: 

"There's  no  more  word  we'll  have  of  it.  Shure,  if  'tis  in 
the  comin'  of  a  day  or  so  the  priest  says  the  words  over 
us,  won't  they  think  'tis  me  own  child  ye'll  be  havin'  the 
way  they  can't  be  pointin'  a  finger  at  it  or  whisperin'  anny 
strange  talk  at  all." 

She  lay  on  her  elbow  and  stared  in  a  wonder  at  him, 

Was  it  like  that  she  had  once  believed  herself? 


PART  IV 


IN  places  like  Ardnashiela,  time  is  not  visibly  to  be  as- 
sociated with  change.  It  is  so  approximately  related  to 
a  process  of  transmutation  as  to  conceal  all  sign  of 
progress  and  give  to  those  whose  eyes  chance  that  way  the 
thought  that  there  life  is  stagnant,  swept  by  an  eddy  of  the 
stream  into  a  still  pool  where  the  stray  flotsam  on  the  cur- 
rent drifts  in  to  remain  until  it  rots  away  in  waste. 

Change  nevertheless  is  working.  For  all  its  tranquillity 
life  is  not  still.  The  great  and  invariable  process  continues 
in  Ardnashiela  as  elsewhere.  Ever  persistently  the  washing 
tides  gnaw  their  way  into  the  crumbling  land  around  the 
low  shore.  From  one  year  to  another  the  fields  between 
Kirwan's  farm  and  the  sea  varied  imperceptibly  in  outline 
and  substance.  With  secret  burrowings  and  submerged  ex- 
cavations, the  long  roll  of  the  Atlantic  waves  worked  at  the 
foundations  of  the  mightiest  battlements  of  the  cliffs.  No 
fruits  of  that  labour  were  apparent.  Only  the  sound  of  the 
hammer  blows,  like  a  thunder  far  beneath  the  land  some- 
times when  the  storms  were  off  the  sea,  were  to  be  heard 
and  these,  so  persistently,  so  monotonously,  that  the;1  lost 
all  sense  of  that  slowly  moving  process  of  change. 

From  year  to  year  nothing  happened  and  then  suddenly 
one  day  a  giant  rock  would  shift  in  the  clamp  of  the  soil. 
No  one  was  out  there  on  those  headlands  to  watch  it.  As 
though  it  were  a  blast  in  the  quarrying  of  time,  it  leaped 
from  its  holding.  Down  with  a  roar  into  the  sea  it  rushed 
in  one  instant  of  bounding  freedom  and  all  the  light  earth 
and  clinging  satellites  of  smaller  stones  that  had  depended 

277 


278  THE  MIRACLE 

upon  it  for  their  existence  of  place  in  that  vast  structure 
of  the  cliffs,  fell  in  a  cloud,  a  dust,  a  fume  of  the  sudden 
cataclysm  after  it. 

Who  was  there  to  know  what  had  happened  who  had  not 
heard  the  uproar  of  that  sudden  calamity  of  change?  A 
sea-pink  uprooted,  withering  to  death,  a  cloud  of  dust  upon 
the  rocks  soon  licked  oft"  by  the  curling  tongues  of  water,  a 
gaping  wound  in  the  face  of  the  cliff  swiftly  made  whole 
by  the  healing  winds  and  the  restoring  rains  and  eager 
plant  life  finding  a  hold  again  in  the  loosened  earth,  what 
was  there  to  show  of  the  gradual  labour  of  time  wrought 
to  a  climax  in  that  one  instant  of  disintegration? 

In  such  secretive  measures  time  moves  and  change  effects 
its  inexorable  purpose.  Where,  as  in  Ardnashiela,  life 
seems  stillest,  there  yet  is  the  ever-onward  progress  of  ad- 
venture in  a  mutable  world. 

Within  two  days  of  her  recovery,  Mary  Kirwan  was 
married  to  Fennel,  the  fisherman.  The  words  were  said 
over  them  by  Father  Roche  in  the  little  church  that  stands 
in  the  open  place  above  the  sea-wall  at  the  end  of  the  vil- 
lage street. 

Marriages  in  Ardnashiela  were  usually  rowdy  cere- 
monies. There  was  laughter  even  in  church  and  much  jest- 
ing. Often  the  feast  afterwards,  broken  with  dancing, 
sometimes  amounting  to  wild  horse-play,  was  little  less  than 
a  drunken  debauch.  In  Ardnashiela,  numbering  some  two 
hundred  souls,  there  were  five  cottages  with  the  license  to 
sell  drink  and  tobacco  painted  up  over  their  doors.  A  liv- 
ing was  to  be  found  for  all  of  them. 

"There's  not  a  man,"  Father  Roche  had  once  said  in  a 
sweeping  condemnation,  "there's  not  a  man  in  Ardnashiela 
has  a  soul  with  the  courage  to  face  the  Lord  God  without 
he  had  a  drop  of  drink  taken  to  stiffen  him." 

At  Mary's  marriage  there  was  none  of  this,  no  laughter, 


THE  MIRACLE  279 

no  jesting  flung,  no  feast,  to  Kirwan's  profound  satisfac- 
tion, in  the  kitchen  at  night.  There  was  a  hush  of  wonder 
over  them  all,  some  seeing  her  for  the  first  time  since  her 
disappearance,  as  she  had  knelt  at  the  altar  that  day.  With 
open  lips  and  following  eyes  they  had  watched  her  out  of 
the  church  and,  in  a  crowd  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff  road,  had 
stood  gaping  after  her  as  she  walked  with  her  man  up  to 
her  new  home. 

Some  had  said  it  was  more  than  they  would  do  them- 
selves to  be  marrying  one  had  the  strange  name  to  herself 
with  the  queer  things  had  happened  her.  Some  had  said 
it  must  be  mad  in  love  he  was,  seeing  that  those  who  had 
once  had  the  touch  of  Them  were  never  the  same  again 
after  it.  All  of  them  wondered  at  the  courage  of  him  and 
there  were  looks  of  pity  Mary  had  cast  upon  herself  and 
looks  of  awe  as  she  had  walked  out  of  the  church. 

"  'Tis  gone  from  himself  yet  again  she'll  be,"  said  the 
old  man  who  had  lived  once  in  the  islands  off  the  coast  of 
Galway.  "Those  that  are  once  taken  only  come  back  for  a 
time.  For  the  stretch  of  a  year  he  may  have  her  and  maybe 
'tis  more,  but  'tis  not  Themselves'll  leave  her  with  him  for 
long." 

He  had  waited  for  a  pause  in  their  talk  to  say  his  words 
so  that  every  one  might  hear  them.  They  nodded  their 
heads,  for  it  was  an  old  man  like  himself  who  had  seen 
long  days  in  the  world,  had  more  wisdom  to  be  knowing 
these  things  than  those  who  were  quick  with  the  ways  of 
life  in  their  youth. 

"Let  him  have  a  care  of  her,"  Shaughnessy  had  muttered 
into  Kirwan's  ear  as  they  stood  outside  the  crowd  watching 
them  both  walking  up  the  cliff  road,  "let  him  have  a  care 
of  her,  I'm  sayin'.  'Tis  not  a  drop  of  food  put  out  in  the 
black  of  the  night  would  pacify  Them  always — it  is  not." 

He  had  shaken  the  greasy  grey  hair  about  his  shoulders; 


280  THE  MIRACLE 

with  the  back  of  his  hand  he  had  brushed  away  the  gather- 
ing drops  of  thin  water  in  his  red  eyes  and  nodding  and 
muttering  to  himself,  he  had  slouched  away  up  the  street. 

The  two  most  concerned  of  them  all  had  said  no  word 
to  each  other  the  whole  way  up  the  cliff  road.  There  were 
a  few  who  had  not  been  down  to  the  church  that  were 
standing  at  their  doors  to  see  them  go  by.  Those  who 
had  a  wish  of  good  luck  to  offer  them  muttered  it  so  softly 
that  none  heard  it  but  themselves. 

To  Mary  it  had  seemed  in  a  silence  they  had  gone  by,  a 
silence  of  shame  as  her  new-found  conscience  interpreted 
it.  Yet  there  was  then  no  shame  in  her  heart.  Perhaps 
she  had  clung  a  little  closer  to  Fennel's  arm.  Perhaps  she 
had  even  felt  a  little  glad  of  him  in  the  solidity  of  his 
strength  beside  her.  Mostly  she  was  still  in  a  dazed  won- 
der of  life,  performing  every  act  of  that  morning  with  an 
automatic  precision  scarcely  realising  any  significance  in 
all  she  said  and  did. 

When  Fennel  had  closed  the  door  behind  her  and  they 
were  alone,  he  went  down  on  his  knees  beside  the  table, 
dragging  her  with  him,  in  the  first  conscious  sense  of  won- 
der she  had  felt  that  day. 

"I  thank  the  Almighty  God,"  he  had  said  and  then  he 
had  put  an  arm  about  her  and  when  she  looked  up  he  had 
kissed  her  for  the  second  time  in  his  life,  still  wondering 
a  woman's  lips  could  be  so  cold,  yet  with  a  triumphant 
pride  of  her  in  his  heart  now  that  she  was  his  own. 

Two  years  had  gone  by  them  since  that  day,  and  if  there 
was  no  change  in  the  life  of  Ardnashiela,  there  was  a  new 
world  in  the  difference  of  life  for  these  two.  Fennel  had 
taken  another  cottage  on  the  upper  road  above  the  cliff, 
secluded  from  and  independent  of  the  rest  of  the  village, 
with  a  patch  of  ground  and  room  in  it  for  them  to  be 


THE  MIRACLE  231 

growing  their  potatoes.  Mary's  child  had  been  born,  when, 
according  to  his  promise,  Fennel  spoke  no  word  to  her 
again  of  what  she  had  told  him. 

Gradually  but  utterly  the  whole  soul's  prospect  of  Mary's 
being  was  turned  to  a  vision  of  the  sweet  gentleness  of  life. 
Long  before  the  birth  of  her  child  that  vision  had  come 
to  her;  faintly  at  first  with  a  weary  man  returning  to  the 
door,  the  salt  of  the  sea  on  his  face  and  listless  hands,  too 
tired  to  do  anything  but  wait  until  there  was  food  ready 
for  his  eating.  It  grew  to  clearness  with  the  sound  of  a 
voice  that  never  knew  anger,  with  eyes  that  followed  her 
about  the  room,  taking  with  a  ceaseless  gratitude  all  that 
she  gave  them,  never  feeding  upon  her  and  reverent  always. 
Clearer  still  it  grew  with  the  peace  that  fell  about  her  days 
and  the  simple  work  there  was,  mending  his  nets  and  mind- 
ing the  house  until  it  became  the  rounded  compass  of  her 
heart's  quiet  content. 

So  also  in  those  months  her  conscience,  soothed  by  time 
and  lulled  by  circumstance,  had  gradually  withdrawn  into 
the  silent  retreat  of  her  soul.  Almost  immediately  after 
her  marriage,  the  blind  man  had  gone  from  the  farm,  de- 
parting upon  his  wanderings  without  apparent  cause  of 
reason,  drift-wood,  caught  and  then  released  upon  the  cur- 
rent. It  was  not  long  before  some  other  wanderer  from 
the  weariness  of  those  desolate  roads  took  his  place. 

He  had  been  the  visible  substance,  the  flesh  and  blood  of 
Mary's  conscience.  So  long  as  she  saw  him  there  by  the 
fireside  in  the  farm  kitchen,  her  imagination  found  it  pos- 
sible to  believe  that  without  his  sight  he  had  known  what 
had  happened  that  night  of  the  threshing  feast,  and,  with 
Father  Costello's  departure  coinciding  with  her  own,  had 
come  at  some  shadow  of  the  truth. 

The  day  when  she  had  gone  down  to  help  her  father  at 
the  farm  and  had  learnt  how  that  morning  at  sunrise  he 


282  THE  MIRACLE 

had  shouldered  his  bundle  and  they  had  heard  his  stick  tap- 
ping down  the  road,  she  felt  as  though  a  narrow  path  had 
been  cleared  for  her.  There  was  still  that  fear  he  might 
have  spoken  before  he  went.  She  had  looked  for  signs 
of  it  in  her  mother,  but  there  were  none.  Mary's  sickness 
had  called  her  to  action  and  more  speech  than  was  her 
wont;  but  now  that  was  passed,  she  had  become  the  same 
silent  woman  once  more.  Returning  to  her  retreat  in  the 
corner  by  the  fire,  she  had  continued  plaiting  her  rushes, 
the  voiceless  spectator  of  that  same  slow  process  of  life, 
forcing  its  gradual  inroads  by  the  low  line  of  shore  and 
working  night  and  day  beneath  the  high  battlements  of 
the  cliffs. 

Only  one  thought  had  remained,  rising  and  falling, 
rising  and  falling,  to  distress  the  tranquillity  of  her  mind. 
Fennel's  belief  in  the  faeries  that  had  taken  her  away  had 
withstood  suspicion  when  she  had  just  told  him  of  her  con- 
viction about  her  child.  Was  it  strong  and  simple  enough 
in  him  to  withstand  the  actual  fact  which,  after  some  little 
time,  she  had  known  was  to  come  to  pass? 

Father  Costello  had  not  returned.  Another  curate  had 
taken  his  place.  However  they  got  their  information  in  the 
village,  she  had  not  questioned,  but  she  heard  it  said  he  had 
gone  abroad.  If  she  had  had  any  regret  for  that,  the  grow- 
ing affection  and  sense  of  responsibility  in  her  heart  for 
Fennel  soon  wore  it  away.  Nothing  it  seemed  had  been 
left  them  but  the  test  of  his  faith  when  her  child  was  born. 

She  knew  its  father.  Nothing  could  uproot  her  knowl- 
edge there.  Already  she  was  feeling  the  passion  she  had 
known  deflected  into  an  absorbing  love  for  it.  Never  could 
she  or  would  she  deceive  her  husband  into  the  thought  that 
it  was  his  own.  A  faerie  child  it  might  be  if  he  believed 
it  so,  a  creature  of  shadows  and  mist  out  of  the  silences 
and  darkness  of  those  hills,  but  to  her  always  the  living 


THE  MIRACLE  283 

voice  of  the  eternity  of  that  little  while,  when  love  had 
leaped  in  its  scorching  fire  about  her  and  she  had  been 
lifted  in  body  and  soul  into  the  resistless  pulse  of  life. 

This  was  the  test  of  faith  she  had  waited  for,  expecting 
always  as  it  drew  nearer  to  her  hour,  his  doubt  would  rise 
and  break  the  pledge  of  silence  he  had  given. 

He  had  said  nothing.  A  doctor  had  come  over  from 
Doonvarna  and  left  her  with  her  child.  It  was  a  boy. 

With  questioning  eyes,  she  had  watched  Fennel's  face 
when  first  he  saw  it  lying  against  her  breast.  A  little  more 
than  eight  months  it  had  been  since  their  marriage.  He 
had  stood  a  while  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  regarding  her 
tenderly.  Then  at  last  he  had  sat  down. 

"Shall  I  tell  ye  something?"  he  had  said. 

Now  was  it  coming?  How  could  his  faith  believe!  She 
had  known  it  must  prove  more  than  the  human  heart  of 
any  man  could  endure.  But  it  was  not  his  child!  His 
faith  must  hold  or  the  truth  must  break  it. 

"What  d'ye  want  to  be  say  in'?"  she  had  asked. 

He  had  heard  all  the  quietness  in  her  voice.  She  only 
had  heard  all  else  there  was. 

'  'Twas  the  way  I  thought,"  he  had  said,  "when  I  heard 
the  cry  ye  had  with  the  pain  that  was  on  ye — I  thought 
'twas  Themselves  had  come  for  ye  that  time  and  'twas  gone 
from  me  for  ever  ye'd  be  then." 

She  had  looked  up,  higher  it  had  seemed  than  it  was  ever 
possible  she  could  have  looked  again,  and  when  he  leant 
over  her  to  kiss  her  lips  they  were  blood  warm  as  she  had 
taken  him  close  with  her  child  into  her  naked  arms. 

From  that  day  onwards,  the  very  fullness  of  peace  and 
contentment  had  come  to  her.  With  the  exacting  care  of 
her  child  for  the  next  few  months,  it  had  been  impossible 
for  her  to  give  any  help  to  her  father  at  the  farm.  Hating 


284  THE  MIRACLE 

him  always  and  much  as  he  hated  the  thing  he  feared,  this 
had  been  the  last  disturbing  presence  to  be  removed  from 
her  life. 

As  the  slow  months  of  her  motherhood  had  slipped  by, 
seeing  nothing  of  her  family,  hearing  no  voice  about  her 
but  that  in  an  eager  consideration  of  all  she  wished,  Mary 
Kirwan  had  come  to  think  very  differently  of  the  ground 
where  that  Mary  Fennel  would  lie  buried. 

Beneath  the  accumulation  of  time  and  that  dense  shield 
of  their  belief,  her  secret  was  overgrown — hidden  some- 
times almost  from  herself.  Falling  away  into  the  softening 
mist  of  the  past,  with  no  word  of  the  priest  ever  to  disturb 
or  call  it  from  its  resting  place,  there  were  moments  when 
she  played  with  the  thought  it  was  the  faeries  indeed  that 
had  taken  her  that  night.  Dandling  her  baby  on  her  knee 
or  rocking  it  at  her  breast,  she  would  often  when  she  was 
alone  sing  to  it  a  song  she  had  once  heard  from  one  of 
those  travelling  men  who  had  come  to  the  farm  when  she 
was  a  child. 

"Knock  at  the  door  of  a  white  thorn  tree 

Lift  up  the  latch  and  cry 

'Are  you  there — are  you  there  ?    My  love  is  gone. 

Have  you  heard  her  feet  go  by  ?' " 

Only  it  was — his  feet — as  she  sang  it  and  to  some  minor 
tune  she  had  heard  from  a  fiddler  perhaps  at  the  dancing  in 
Kirwan's  kitchen. 

In  this  manner  with  the  care  of  her  baby  and  the  mind- 
ing of  the  fisherman's  house,  time  spun  itself  out  to  the 
length  of  two  years.  Memory  became  no  longer  a  pain  to 
her,  but  some  distant  vision,  wrapped  in  a  haze  of  light  that 
hid  all  the  poignant  meaning  it  had  had.  On  the  hot  sum- 
mer days,  when  Fennel  was  out  on  the  water,  she  could  and 


THE  MIRACLE  285 

often  did,  carry  her  charge  round  by  the  headland  path 
to  that  very  ledge  of  rock  where  she  had  stood  with  Father 
Costello.  Sitting  there,  she  would  place  it  on  her  knee  so 
that  the  round  wonder  of  its  eyes  were  staring  back  into 
hers  and  without  a  wrench  of  any  pain  at  her  heart,  would 
sing: 

"Knock  at  the  door  of  a  white  thorn  tree 
Lift  up  the  latch  and  cry 

'Are  you  there — are  you  there  ?    My  love  is  gone. 
Have  you  heard  her  feet  go  by  ?'  " 

When  her  baby  was  weaned  and  there  was  time  again  to 
be  spared  from  the  house,  she  went  back  with  reluctance, 
when  sometimes  her  help  was  needed  on  the  farm. 

It  was  one  morning,  just  two  years  after  her  marriage, 
that  she  went  down  to  make  the  butter.  There  was  none, 
James  Kir  wan  admitted  in  a  moment  of  praise,  who  could 
work  the  churn  like  herself.  A  fiddler's  tune  was  draw- 
ing itself  out  in  her  breath  as  she  walked  along  the  strand 
in  the  bright,  sharp  light  of  that  autumn  morning.  She  was 
another  woman  now  and  knew  it,  and  the  knowledge  was  a 
gladness  in  her. 

Entering  the  farm  by  a  door  on  the  field  side  of  one 
of  the  sheds,  she  passed  through  the  cow  stalls,  where  first 
she  had  met  the  fisherman.  It  was  without  conscious 
thought  of  recalling  it  that  the  tune  swelled  to  the  round 
fullness  of  her  voice,  for  she  passed  on  without  pausing 
through  the  other  sheds  onto  the  cobbled  path  before  the 
house. 

Now  she  was  facing  the  iron  gateway  with  its  rusty 
hinge  that  opened  onto  the  road.  There  she  stopped.  A 
sound  first  had  held  her — an  even  tapping,  tapping,  te£- 


286  THE  MIRACLE 

ping,  like  the  labour  of  a  wood-pecker  in  the  silence  of 
some  forest  place. 

She  looked  through  the  gateway  to  the  turning  of  the 
road  and  waited  with  her  heart  unaccountably  still  to  learn 
its  meaning.  It  was  but  a  few  moments  and  she  knew. 

After  the  two  years  of  his  wandering,  the  blind  man, 
sensing  his  way  with  the  touch  of  his  stick  and  the  sliding 
motion  of  his  feet,  had  come  back  for  a  roof  to  his  head 
and  the  grace  of  God  they  could  be  giving  him. 


II 

IT  was  in  the  month  of  September  that  sprats  and  mack- 
erel came  in  their  shoals  into  Ardnashiela  Bay.  A  net 
that  was  not  mended  then,  a  boat  that  was  not  ready  for 
the  water,  lost  the  best  of  the  year's  fishing.  No  little  of  the 
secret  of  Fennel's  success  as  a  fisherman  lay  in  the  fact 
that  his  tackle  was  always  clean,  his  boat  always  seaworthy. 

Early  those  mornings  of  that  autumn  month,  he  was  out 
about  the  headlands  every  day  with  the  oldest  of  his  men 
in  whose  family  for  generations  had  been  vested  that  singu- 
lar quality  of  sight,  like  the  water-diviner's  power.  From 
the  high  altitude  of  the  cliffs  these  men  can  see  the  ap- 
proaching shoals  where  to  the  ungifted  eye  never  a  shadow 
stains  the  water's  blue. 

A  week  after  the  blind  man's  return  to  the  farm,  Fennel 
was  sitting  with  Shawn  Troy  on  the  close  grass  at  the  cliff's 
edge  beyond  the  third  headland.  All  signs  of  the  weather 
and  the  wind's  direction  pointed  to  the  incoming  of  the  fish. 
Five  or  six  miles  out,  clusters  of  gulls  had  been  cruishting 
on  the  pearly  surface  of  the  water  since  daybreak.  In  the 
still  air,  when  the  note  of  a  bee  was  a  clarion  over  the 
heather,  their  cries  came  lingering,  sometimes  lifting,  with 
faint  shrilling  sounds  the  breath  of  a  breeze  had  carried 
swifter  than  the  rest. 

Below  them,  close  at  the  rock's  edge,  the  boat  lay  wait- 
ing for  the  first  trumpet  cry  of  command  to  put  out  with 
the  nets.  Two  days  already  they  had  spent,  waiting  in  vain, 
returning  to  the  boat  cove  as  evening  fell.  The  men  were 
lounging,  stretched  out  in  the  sun  across  the  seats.  Some 

287 


288  THE  MIRACLE 

were  smoking  their  pipes;  others  chewing  their  tobacco, 
spitting  the  brown  juice  out  into  the  green  water  and  idly 
watching  it  trail  away  into  the  clear  deep,  emerald  shadow 
of  the  boat.  There  was  little  talk  between  them.  When 
they  did  speak,  their  voices  rose  in  a  soft  murmur,  the 
human  organ  note  no  other  sound  in  nature  can  convey. 

The  two  men  on  the  cliff's  edge  sat  with  their  chins  upon 
their  tilted  knees,  head,  body,  hands  and  limbs  cut  in  sharp 
silhouettes  of  graven  stillness.  Only  their  eyes  roamed, 
never  resting,  north,  south  and  west.  For  more  than  an 
hour  they  had  not  spoken.  Gods  of  a  pagan  world  they 
might  have  been  brooding  over  and  determining  the  fates 
of  those  who  waited  on  the  sea  below  in  human  submis- 
sion for  the  empyrean  voice  of  destiny. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  They  had  been  there 
since  six.  Shawn  felt  in  his  pocket  and  produced  a  piece 
of  bread  and  cheese  rolled  in  a  red  handkerchief.  After  a 
moment  Fennel  followed  his  example.  Their  eyes  never 
left  the  sea.  They  munched  their  food  in  silence.  De- 
stroying that  graven  stillness,  their  jaws  were  rolling  to- 
gether. With  the  tranquillity  remaining  about  them  they 
suggested  now  two  animals,  scarce  men,  at  their  food  time. 

Shawn's  voice  broke  the  surrounding  quiet  and  made 
them  human. 

"  'Twould  be  a  good  thing,"  said  he,  "in  the  course  of  a 
piece,  me  bringing  that  boy  ye  have  out  here  round  the  head 
to  be  sittin'  with  me.  'Tis  young  eyes  can  see  the  fish  as 
well  as  the  old  when  they'd  have  a  sight  is  me  own  to  be 
teachin'  em.'" 

Fennel  finished  his  crust  of  bread  before  he  answered. 

"Maybe  he's  not  for  the  fishin',"  he  said. 

There  was  no  inflection  needed  in  his  words  to  convey 
their  disappointment.  The  mere  statement  upheld  it.  For 
the  first  moment  in  a  long  hour,  Shawn's  eyes  left  the  sea, 


THE  MIRACLE  289 

snatching  a  glance  at  Fennel's  face  and  returning  imme- 
diately to  their  watching. 

"Shure  what's  he  for  then?" 

'  Tis  the  farming  maybe.  Herself  goes  down  there 
often  these  days.  She  takes  him  with  her.  Isn't  it  a  surer 
thing  to  be  farming  the  land,  has  the  crops  risin'  from  it  to 
the  man  would  be  sowin'  em?  Shure  God  knows  what  is 
it  brings  the  fish  into  the  Bay  or  keeps  them  driftin'  out 
in  the  wastes  of  the  water." 

Shawn  spat  on  the  ground  between  his  tilted  knees. 

"And  he  with  a  boat  and  nets  and  all  when  he's  grown !" 

There  was  no  reply  from  Fennel. 

"Shure  I'd  make  a  son  of  me  own  what  I'd  have  him  be." 
Shawn  continued  and  they  fell  to  silence  again. 

"A  son  of  me  own — !"  Those  words  lingered.  They 
hung  in  the  air,  repeating  themselves  again  and  again,  like 
a  thread  running  backwards  and  forwards  through  a 
thought  that  for  some  time  had  found  the  substance  of 
being  in  Fennel's  mind. 

Might  it  not  after  all  be  his  child?  It  had  been  born  a 
week  or  two  sooner  than  they  expected.  But  he  had  heard 
of  children  being  born  in  seven  months.  Some,  a  few  in- 
deed, in  less,  but  sure,  they  all  knew  what  that  meant. 

Every  one  there  in  the  village  believed  it  was  his  own. 
Without  word  or  question,  Father  Roche  had  christened  it. 
It  was  those  asking  him,  as  they  often  did  down  on  the  sea- 
wall, about  his  child,  who  had  set  the  seed  of  that  thought 
to  grow  in  a  ready  soil. 

Never  since  those  fifteen  months  it  had  been  born,  had 
they  spoken  of  it  as  a  faerie  child,  nor  for  that  matter,  as 
his,  but  hers  only. 

"Look  at  him  now,"  she'd  say  in  the  pride  she  had  of  him 
and  often,  when  he  was  not  close,  it  was — my  baby — she'd 


290  THE  MIRACLE 

be  calling  it.  But  what  was  that  to  say  one  way  or  another 
whose  it  was? 

She  had  said  she  was  going  to  have  a  child,  that  time  he 
brought  her  back  from  Them  out  of  the  hills,  but  how  the 
Hell  could  she  be  knowing  that  in  herself?  There  was  no 
woman  could  know  such  a  thing  in  the  time  there  must  be 
for  a  child  to  be  born! 

Why  shouldn't  it  be  his?  That  very  night  of  their  mar- 
rying, cold  though  she  was  compared  with  the  tenderness 
that  had  come  to  her  in  those  two  years,  he  had  had  her  in  his 
arms.  What  the  deuce  did  Shaughnessy  know  about 
Themselves,  more  than  any  other  man  in  those  parts  ?  And 
if  'twas  Their  child  it  was,  wasn't  it  likely  fetchin*  it  away 
for  Themselves  They'd  be?  He  did  not  doubt  Their  ex- 
istence, or  had  he  lost  conviction  of  the  presence  of  that 
unseen  world,  but  now  that  the  lonesomeness  of  his  life 
had  fallen  from  him,  it  was  more  sure  of  himself  he  was. 
His  fishing  had  been  successful  all  that  time.  He  was 
beginning  to  believe  They  could  not  touch  him  now.  And 
all  those  months,  hearing  her  singing  to  that  thing  in  her 
arms,  knowing  in  himself  his  own  manhood  and  envious 
sometimes  of  the  love  she  gave  it,  he  had  come  first  to  enter- 
tain the  wish  that  it  was  his  own  and  at  last  to  give  admit- 
tance to  the  thought. 

It  was  true  enough  he  would  have  wished  the  boy  to  be  a 
fisherman,  taking  the  nets  he  had  and  putting  out  his 
boat  when  he  was  come  to  be  a  man.  But  latterly  she  had 
begun  again  going  down  to  the  farm  and  now  for  the  last 
week  had  gone  each  day.  That  was  the  thought  he  had  had, 
that  she  wished  her  son  to  live  the  life  she  had  known  and, 
in  the  brooding  of  his  mind,  had  found  the  edge  of  a 
shadow  falling  over  the  peace  and  contentment  that  had 
come  about  his  days.  Being  a  man  of  no  words  for  the 
vague  sensations  of  his  thoughts,  he  had  said  nothing. 


THE  MIRACLE  291 

Each  day  of  that  week,  Mary  had  gone  down  to  the  farm. 
They  were  busy,  she  said,  and  in  a  toil  of  work  after  the 
threshing.  Perhaps  they  were.  He  had  let  her  go,  pur- 
suing no  thought  that  might  have  come  to  him.  And  now 
this  old  man  beside  him  had  put  words  to  it  all  which,  once 
spoken  in  the  stillness  of  that  air,  lingered  on  the  silence 
about  them  and  would  not  be  'dumb. 

All  there  was  that  could  outcry  them  happened  then  a 
moment  later.  Stiffening  in  all  his  body  and  then,  as 
though  a  powerful  hand  had  lifted  him,  Shawn  Troy  sprang 
to  his  feet.  In  his  excitement,  with  his  native  tongue  he 
cried  out  in  Gaelic  that  the  fish  were  drifting  into  the  rocks. 
Sprats  they  were.  He  could  see  that  from  where  he  was, 
though  never  a  shadow  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  the 
water.  The  mackerel  were  after  them.  They  were  bearing 
into  the  fourth  headland.  Seizing  his  hat  in  his  hand  for 
a  signal  to  direct  them,  he  yelled  out  to  the  boat  below 
to  make  ready. 

Every  thought  he  had  had  was  swept  in  the  sudden  gust 
of  action  out  of  Fennel's  mind.  At  the  first  glimpse  of  that 
rigidity  that  had  set  about  the  body  of  his  companion,  he 
had  stood  to  his  feet.  Now  he  was  climbing  down  the  face 
of  the  cliffs  to  the  water's  edge.  Oars  were  rattling  in  the 
boat  below  as  they  fitted  them  into  the  rowlocks.  A  fever 
of  action  was  a  leaping  fire  in  every  vein.  Their  eyes  glit- 
tered with  it.  Their  voices  were  high-pitched.  There  was 
a  commotion  in  the  boat  like  a  lot  of  children  let  out  of 
school.  They  trampled  upon  each  other  to  reach  their  seats ; 
they  cursed  and  swore  and  every  moment  seemed  as  though 
they  would  be  fighting  amongst  themselves. 

Only  the  presence  of  Fennel,  when  he  reached  the  boat, 
steadied  them.  At  last  with  the.  noise  only  of  the  sweeps, 
they  put  away  from  the  rocks  and  with  short  strokes,  leav- 
ing the  marks  as  it  were  of  the  countless  feet  of  a  centipede 


292  THE  MIRACLE 

upon  the  water,  they  sped  across  the  glass  of  the  sea  to 
the  fourth  head. 

From  the  cliffs  above,  with  waving  arm  and  the  screech- 
ing cries  of  his  voice,  growing  more  and  more  hoarse  as 
he  yelled  one  swift  direction  upon  another,  Shawn  Troy 
guided  them  to  their  destination.  In  those  adventures, 
there  is  no  time  to  be  lost.  The  shoals  move  swiftly.  With 
one  last  stentorian  effort  of  his  voice,  that  broke  as  he 
made  it  with  a  whistle  in  his  throat,  he  screamed  to  them 
to  begin  paying  out  the  net. 

From  one  point  of  the  rocks  where  a  man  was  landed 
clinging  to  the  rock  the  boat  edged  round  in  a  sweeping 
circle  from  the  shore.  Like  coils  of  spawn  the  net  was 
baled  out  into  the  sea,  sinking  below  the  green  water  with 
only  the  floating  corks  to  mark  its  course.  And  then,  when 
the  other  end  was  landed,  the  slow  hauling  began. 

Closer  and  closer  to  the  rocks,  the  circle  of  corks  nar- 
rowed as  the  net  was  drawn  in  and  at  last,  as  the  boat 
closed  round  to  lift  the  catch,  the  emerald  water  was  a 
fume  of  liquid  silver  boiling  in  a  cauldron  with  the  leap- 
ing fish. 

An  hour  was  passed  before  the  haul  was  ladled  into  the 
boat,  a  shine  of  simmering  silver,  full  to  the  seats,  that 
cooled  and  cooled  from  the  fret  in  that  cauldron,  till  it 
was  lapping  only  with  the  sway  of  the  boat  as  the  men 
waded  knee-deep  in  its  glittering  mass. 

Two  men  were  all  she  could  carry  with  the  weight  of  that 
load.  The  water  was  up  to  the  gunwales  as  they  sat  to 
their  oars,  their  legs  submerged  in  silver  and  the  sway  of 
that  molten  metal  washing  against  their  bodies  as  they 
rowed. 

The  lightest  men  had  been  chosen  for  the  boat,  that  they 
might  take  the  utmost  of  the  catch.  Even  then  a  cloud  of 
shimmering  bodies  lay  floating  on  the  water  for  the  screech- 


THE  MIRACLE  293 

ing  gulls  to  eat.  Fennel  went  with  the  rest  of  the  men 
back  to  Ardnashiela  by  the  headland  patch.  If  they 
walked  swiftly,  there  was  no  need.  With  that  burden  in 
her,  the  boat  would  be  long  behind  them.  But  they  were 
laughing  and  easy  in  their  minds  now  that  their  work  was 
over.  It  was  the  biggest  haul  they  had  had  that  year. 

News  by  that  time  was  in  the  village  that  Fennel's  boat 
had  landed  a  catch  of  sprats.  A  donkey  butt  was  already 
waiting  on  the  slip  of  sand  in  the  boat  cove  to  hawk  the 
fish  from  one  outlying  farm  to  another  even  as  far  as  the 
hills  and  into  Doonvarna  itself.  Idlers  were  gathered  in 
groups  on  the  sea-wall.  Women  and  children  were  ready 
with  plates  and  baskets  for  their  purchase  fresh  out  of  the 
boat.  And  there,  sitting  alone  on  the  rocks,  with  her  baby 
on  her  knee,  was  Mary,  waiting  to  see  her  man's  boat 
come  in. 

There  were  none  eager  to  be  talking  with  her,  even  in 
those  days.  It  was  fear  perhaps,  or  a  strangeness  they 
had.  Never  did  she  pass  through  the  street  but  what  heads 
were  turned  to  look  at  her.  It  would  only  be  when  she  was 
grown  to  be  an  old  woman  that  they  would  have  courage 
to  ask  her  what  memory  she  had  of  those  days  when  she 
was  taken  in  the  hills. 

Fennel  himself  had  never  spoken  of  it  again  and  seeing 
her  there,  sitting  alone,  his  thought  came  swiftly  to  realise 
her  isolation.  Speeding  his  steps,  he  went  on  ahead  of  the 
men  and  came  with  sure  foothold  across  the  rocks  to  her 
side. 

"Is  it  a  big  haul?"  she  asked. 

He  said  it  was. 

"There  was  word  came  out  to  the  farm." 

He  nodded. 

She  nodded  down  at  her  baby  and  with  her  eyes  directed 
Fennel's  eyes  to  look  at  it. 


294  THE  MIRACLE 

"I  had  a  thought,"  said  she,  "to  bring  him  down  to  see 
his  first  catch  come  in." 

Fennel  felt  a  quick  tightening  upon  his  heart.  So  sud- 
den was  it,  it  might  have  been  a  hand — her  hand — that  for 
an  instant  held  it  and  then  let  the  blood  flow  free.  His 
eyes  stayed  a  moment  on  the  baby's  face  and  then  lifted, 
resting  on  her  own. 

"His  first  catch — "  he  repeated. 

"Maybe  it  won't  be  his  last,"  said  she. 

He  tried  to  believe  it  all  at  once.  Was  life  like  that? 
So  sudden  a  coincidence  after  his  talk  with  Shawn  Troy  on 
the  cliffs  and  the  shadow  of  his  thoughts  that  had  followed 
swift  upon  their  words?  Had  it  so  much  warmth  of  joy 
in  it  as  this?  Since  she  had  come  to  him,  it  had  seemed 
to  be  so.  The  last  shadow  was  gone  now.  It  would  not 
be  his  last  catch !  It  was  a  fisherman  she  wanted  him  to  be. 
Surely  'twas  that  way  she  meant  it.  He  asked  her — was 
it  that? 

"  'Tis  not  for  the  land  ye  want  him  so  ?"  said  he. 

Almost  with  vehemence  she  shook  her  head. 

"I've  known  one  these  two  years  is  fishin'  on  the  sea," 
she  replied,  "and  it's  sooner  with  that  one  I'd  leave  him 
than  anny  would  be  workin'  on  the  land." 

She  lifted  her  baby  up  in  her  hands  and  with  a  laugh  at 
his  awkwardness  and  timidity,  she  laid  him  in  Fennel's 
arms.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  held  him.  He  heard 
them  laughing  away  there  on  the  sea  wall.  They  could 
laugh!  Shure,  what  the  Hell  did  they  know  of  the  things 
he  knew  then! 

Why  was  it  they  didn't  go  on  laughing?  What  was 
stopping  them?  He  was  ready  to  stand  there,  with  his 
head  thrown  back — if  it  was  safe  with  that  creature  he  was 
holding — and  laugh  with  them  and  at  them  and  above  the 


THE  MIRACLE  295 

voices  of  every  single  one  of  them  with  the  loud  shout  of 
the  joy  in  his  heart. 

Why  didn't  they  go  on  with  their  laughter?  What  had 
happened?  There  was  a  boy  had  run  down  the  cliff  road 
from  the  path  round  the  headlands.  They  were  all  gath- 
ered about  him  like  gulls  over  the  netted  sprats.  What  was 
he  saying?  What  was  the  matter? 

He  put  the  child  back  in  Mary's  arms.  An  instinct  of 
uncertainty  drew  him  over  to  the  sea-wall.  They  told  him 
then,  one  voice  breaking  in  upon  another.  The  boy  led 
them.  He  had  seen.  The  substance  of  the  story  came 
from  him. 

In  a  sway  from  the  rowing  of  the  men,  the  boat  had 
shipped  water.  In  a  moment  she  had  settled  down  with  the 
sea  pouring  over  the  gunwales.  She  had  capsized.  The 
catch  was  lost  and  one  of  the  men — one  of  the  men  who 
could  not  swim — 

"Yirra,  say  it  in  the  name  of  God !"  shouted  Fennel. 

"He's  drowned,"  said  the  boy,  "  'tis  under  the  water  he 
is  and  his  hat  floatin*  out  there  beyond  the  second  head  of 
the  cliffs." 


Ill 

THE  visible  semblance  of  Mary's  conscience  had  taken 
flesh  and  blood  again  with  the  return  of  the  blind 
man.    Rather  than  driving  her  from  it,  fear  drew  her 
each  day  to  the  farm.    She  could  not  stay  away.    The  revival 
of  apprehension  in  her  had  come  with  an  added  terror  to 
disturb  her  peace.    She  had  the  inarticulate  sensation  that  all 
that  had  happened  that  night  in  the  hills  would  not  die  out 
of  her  life  as  in  those  days  of  contentment  it  had  seemed  to 
have  done,  but  must  live  on,  always  lingering  with  her — 
never  at  rest. 

Something  there  was  had  given  it  a  deathlessness  of  being. 
Nothing  could  destroy  it.  She  felt  it  in  the  eyes  that  watched 
her  wherever  she  went.  In  her  acceptance  of  their  beliefs 
she  had  given  it  life.  As  long  as  she  lived  there  in  Ard- 
nashiela,  she  would  be  to  them  one  of  those  whom  the 
faeries  had  led  astray.  They  could  never  forget  that  and, 
so  long  as  it  was  remembered  by  them,  there  would  remain 
in  vivid  consciousness,  her  memory  of  that  night  in  the 
Gap  of  Doon. 

She  would  have  forgotten  it  now  if  she  could.  But  would 
they  ever  allow  her  to  do  that?  Knowing  the  soft  sweet- 
ness there  could  be  in  life,  she  longed  sometimes  that  they 
might  leave  Ardnashiela  and  never  look  upon  it  again. 

Yet  these  were  but  indefinite  ideas  compared  with  the 
actual  presence  of  the  blind  man  in  the  farm  kitchen,  always 
sitting  there  at  the  bellows  wheel,  an  ever-present  voice  of 
her  conscience,  if  indeed  he  had  knowledge  and  should 
choose  to  speak.  These  daily  visits  of  hers  now  to  the  farm 

296 


THE  MIRACLE  297 

were  set  with  one  fixed  determination.  Once  and  for  all 
time  she  must  discover  what  he  knew  of  that  which  had  hap- 
pened after  the  threshing  feast.  There  was  no  suspicion  in 
her  now  that  he  had  spoken  to  her  mother.  If  any,  it  was 
her  father  she  most  feared.  It  was  a  wide  berth  always  he 
gave  her.  In  short  and  abrupt  sentences  he  answered  her 
only  when  she  spoke  her  words  to  him.  Sometimes  he  did  not 
answer  at  all  when  by  his  eyes,  furtively  kept  from  her, 
she  knew  he  had  heard  what  she  said. 

Did  he  know?  Had  the  blind  man  whispered  the  secret 
to  him?  Anxious  as  he  had  been  for  help  on  the  day  of 
his  settlement  with  Fennel,  he  seemed  none  too  glad  of  her 
presence  there  now  in  the  house.  She  had  sought  to  propi- 
tiate him  by  the  help  she  offered.  Her  fear  increased  when, 
after  the  disaster  to  Fennel's  boat,  he  hired  the  labour  of  a 
hand  out  of  the  village.  It  was  not  only  to  milk  the  cows 
this  girl  had  come.  Any  of  those  little  things  Mary  might 
have  done,  she  was  set  with  her  hands  to  do.  It  was  a  pro- 
test— a  notice — a  warning.  He  did  not  want  her  to  be  com- 
ing near  the  place  at  all.  Did  he  know  ?  Had  the  blind  man 
whispered  his  secret  to  him? 

Fear  still  drove  her  there  to  learn  the  worst,  whatever 
it  might  be.  For  many  days  after  the  blind  man's  return, 
no  opportunity  arose  to  speak  with  him  alone.  Always  her 
mother  was  there,  silent,  a  shadow  falling  obliquely  across 
the  light  she  sought. 

It  was  not  until  five  days  after  the  catch  was  lost  and 
Michael  Kelleher,  brother  of  the  smith,  was  drowned,  that 
her  moment  came.  The  blind  man  was  alone  in  the  kitchen, 
rousing  the  fire  for  the  hour  of  tea.  She  sat  down  on  the 
hearth  by  his  side  as  he  turned  the  bellows  wheel,  waiting 
for  long  moments  while  she  summoned  courage  and  cun- 
ning to  begin,  watching  the  milk  white  of  those  eyes  and 
wondering  how  deep  was  the  darkness  that  was  in  them. 


298  THE  MIRACLE 

"Is  it  the  way  ye  can't  see  at  all?"  she  asked  presently — 
"and  ye  starin'  at  me  now  with  the  look  of  watchin'  is  in  yeer 
eyes?" 

"I  was  born  dark — an'  'tis  the  darkness  itself  will  always 
be  on  me.  But  isn't  there  a  touch  comes  to  those  would 
be  in  the  ends  of  their  hands  and  can't  they  hear  the  sound  of 
the  wind  the  time  it'ud  be  turnin'  to  the  softness  of  the  rain? 
Shure,  if  'twas  the  light  I  could  see  now,  mightn't  the  ears 
be  goin'  deaf  on  me  and  what  'ud  I  be  doin*  to  know  what 
was  happenin'  about  me  then?" 

"Can  ye  hear  everything  ?" 

"I  can,  of  course." 

"  'Tis  sweet  music  ye'd  be  hearin*  then  the  time  ye'd  be 
playin*  yeer  fiddle  in  the  night." 

A  faint  smile  spread  about  his  lips  with  the  pride  that 
came  to  him  when  she  said  that.  For  there  was  none  of  her 
cunning  he  heard  or  wished  to  be  hearing  in  it  while  the 
praise  of  her  words  was  a  sweet  sound  in  his  ears. 

"Well,  glory  be,"  said  he.  "There's  many  a  one  I've 
played  to  for  them  to  be  singin*  or  dancin',  has  never  said 
the  like  of  that  to  me  before." 

Whether  that  were  invitation  or  not  for  her  to  be  flattering 
him  still,  it  was  readily  she  accepted  it.  This  was  the  narrow 
way  to  his  confidence  and  all  the  subtlety  and  charm  of  her 
sex  she  drew  forth  from  herself  to  take  it. 

"Shure,  I  never  heard  a  man  had  his  sight, '  said  she, 
"could  play  the  way  ye  can  with  the  strings." 

He  began  telling  her  how  he  had  learnt  his  fiddle,  sitting 
by  roadsides  in  the  hills  and  down  the  valleys  and  listening  to 
the  tunes  would  be  always  in  the  air  for  those  were  dark  f r/>m 
the  hour  of  their  birth.  For  a  time,  while  his  pride  was  riding 
him  with  speech,  she  let  him  go  on  with  his  stories  of  the 
hours  he  had  played  at  this  dance  or  that  at  the  fairs,  without 


THE  MIRACLE  299 

stopping  to  put  the  resin  on  his  bow  or  wasting  his  hand  for 
a  drink. 

'  'Twas  a  long  hour  ye  played  that  night  of  the  threshing 
feast,"  she  interrupted  him  at  last,  "and  shure,  when  'twas 
all  gone  they  were,  didn't  ye  start  again  with  that  tune  him- 
self was  askin'  ye  for?" 

"Ah — that's  a  grand  one,"  said  he,  and  there  was  a  linger- 
ing in  his  voice  with  the  memory  of  it,  so  that  she  knew  his 
heart  was  gone  back  to  the  night  in  the  hills  when  it  had  come 
with  the  wind  in  the  air  to  his  ears. 

"That's  a  tune  would  be  takin'  ye  away,  the  time  ye'd  hear 
it  played  well  with  the  soft  rise  and  the  fall  of  it." 

"Does  it  take  ye  away  as  ye  play?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"Shure  it  didn't  take  ye  away  that  night." 

"Why   so?" 

"Weren't  ye  askin'  for  the  feet  to  be  dancin'  to  it — ye  sit- 
tin'  on  the  table  there  and  knockin*  the  tap  of  yeer  heels?" 

"Did  I  ask  that?" 

She  held  a  sudden  breath. 

"Ye  did  of  course." 

"Yirra,  who  was  there  to  be  dancin' — and  they  all  gone  ?" 

She  laughed  aloud. 

"Wasn't  I  dancin'  meself !"  she  said  and,  understanding 
nothing  of  it,  he  heard  the  high  rise  in  her  voice. 

"Ye  were?" 

"I  was  indeed.  Maybe  'twas  the  tune  itself  took  me  away, 
the  time  I  fell  down  in  a  weakness  on  the  floor.  Shure,  glory 
be,  ye  haven't  forgotten  that,  have  ye,  with  yeerself  and  the 
priest  was  there  and  ye  pattin'  me  hand  and  himself  runnin' 
for  the  cold  water  to  be  throwin'  over  me  face!" 

"  'Tis  not  that  I've  forgotten,"  said  the  blind  man,  "but 
meself  askin'  for  the  noise  of  the  feet  or  the  sound  of  any 
dancin'  I'd  be  hearin'  at  all.  Well — isn't  that  a  strange  thing 


300  THE  MIRACLE 

now,  the  way  ye'd  be  doin'  and  sayin'  things  and  there  be 
no  knowing  in  yeerself  what  ye'd  be  sayin'  or  doin'  at  all." 
He  fell  into  a  muse  of  thought,  as  though  his  life  were 
full  of  those  things  he  had  done  and  said  if  in  his  recollection 
he  could  only  recapture  them.  It  was  nodding  his  head  he 
was  then  and  with  sharp  sounds  in  his  breath  as  thoughts 
knocked  at  the  door  of  his  memory  and,  when  he  opened  it, 
ran  away. 


IV 

THERE  was  thunder  hanging  low  about  the  hills  of 
Doon  that  evening  when  Mary  went  home.  Her  heart 
laughed  at  it.  Scarcely  a  civil  word  had  her  father 
spoken  to  her  that  day.  The  thought  of  it  came  lightly  to  her 
now.  She  hated  him  in  her  heart  no  less  than  she  had  ever 
done.  Doubtless  he  hated  her  too.  But  he  knew  nothing  and 
could  never  know.  Fear  was  gone  from  her  hatred.  She 
felt  an  exultant  satisfaction  in  it  that  could  easily  have 
turned  to  laughter  with  every  other  thought  she  had. 

Let  him  believe  the  faeries  had  taken  her — shure,  let 
him  believe!  What  harm  could  that  do  to  her  or  the 
sweet  tenderness  there  was  in  life  for  her  now? 

As  she  went  up  the  street  to  the  back  road  where  their 
cottage  was,  she  passed  Maggie,  the  sister  of  that  Kelleher 
who  had  been  drowned.  The  body  had  been  recovered  from 
the  water.  They  had  waked  him  two  days  before.  The 
new  curate  had  buried  him  in  that  grave-yard  by  the  upper 
road.  She  had  not  gone.  Fennel  had  persuaded  her  it 
would  only  be  a  fret  to  herself  if  she  went.  She  was 
willing  to  obey.  None  sought  her  company  now  and  surely 
they  did  not  want  it  then  in  the  sorrow  that  was  on  them. 
Maybe  he  had  realised  that  too.  They  never  spoke  of 
it.  Maybe  that  was  why  he  had  dissuaded  her. 

Maggie  was  approaching  her  on  the  same  side  of  the 
street.  At  the  first  sight  of  Mary  and  for  no  apparent 
purpose,  she  crossed  out  of  the  way  of  their  meeting.  The 
deliberateness  of  the  action  caught  her  in  surprise.  She 
realised  it  had  been  done  with  intent.  In  that  moment 

301 


302  THE  MIRACLE 

she  had  not  grasped  what  the  intention  was.  Some  quick 
determination  in  her  urged  her  to  test  its  meaning.  She 
gave  her  some  words  of  salutation  across  the  street.  Maggie 
kept  her  eyes  away  and  hurried  by. 

A  stupor  of  confusion  then  fell  over  Mary's  thoughts 
as  she  walked  home.  In  her  heart  she  knew  what  it  meant. 
It  was  in  her  mind  only  she  refused  to  accept  its  meaning. 
Was  that  what  her  father  was  thinking  too?  Was  that 
why  he  avoided  her  at  every  opportunity?  Were  they  such 
fools  as  to  believe  that  she  could  bring  them  misfortune? 
Did  they  think  it  was  because  of  her  that  Kelleher,  the 
fisherman,  had  been  drowned?  This  was  a  new  thought 
to  take  the  place  of  that  fear  of  her  conscience.  Her  eyes 
were  staring  at  it  as  she  walked.  They  were  still  staring 
at  it  as  she  entered  the  door.  All  that  evening,  sitting  by 
the  fire  they  fixed  themselves  upon  that  dark  veil  of  signifi- 
cance drawn  close  across  the  clear  meaning  it  concealed. 

For  a  long  while  Fennel  was  aware  of  her  mood  before 
he  spoke.  Then,  as  often  was  his  habit  when  they  talked 
together,  he  leant  forward  across  the  fire,  stretching  out 
for  her  hand.  She  gave  it  and  looked  up. 

"What's  on  ye?"  he  asked,  gently. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"There's  something  is  on  ye,"  he  persisted. 

She  tried  to  shake  her  head  again.  The  steady  look 
in  his  eyes  broke  down  her  wish  for  silence.  Surely  he 
did  not  believe  what  they  believed!  Was  this  her  penance, 
her  punishment?  Was  she  to  be  isolated  even  from  him? 

The  desire  to  know  and  to  know  all  rushed  upon  her 
then.  It  was  things  hidden  she  feared. 

"Why  was  it  Kelleher  was  drowned?"   she  asked. 

It  was  the  suddenness  of  her  question  that  confused 
him.  The  steadiness  fell  from  his  eyes.  He  turned  then 


THE  MIRACLE  303 

to  look  in  the  fire.  He  looked  anywhere  for  that  moment 
but  at  her.  Then  with  a  new  firmness  his  eyes  returned. 

'  'Twas  rowin'  careless  they  were,"  said  he,  "and  the 
boat  full  as  it  could  hold  with  the  catch.  Shure,  'twas  no 
more  than  a  twist  or  turn  of  them  would  do  it  and  once  the 
water  was  in  with  that  weight  of  fish  there  was,  who  could 
save  her?  Didn't  Cronin  say  himself  'twas  pullin'  careless 
they  were  and  they  pressin'  on  to  be  gettin'  into  the  cove?" 

She  held  him  straightly  with  her  look. 

"Is  that  what  ye  believe  yeerself  ?"  she  asked. 

"It  is." 

"Why  did  Maggie  Kelleher  cross  the  street  a  while  since 
the  time  I  was  comin'  home  and  she  with  no  tongue  in  her 
head  or  a  look  for  me  would  be  in  her  eyes  when  I'd  be 
givin'  a  good-evenin'  to  her?" 

He  knew  well  why  that  was.  There  was  talk  at  the  wake 
and  the  burying,  too,  they  had  not  been  able  to  keep  away 
from  his  ears.  But  what  was  the  good  of  his  telling  her  and 
fretting  her  with  the  words  of  it?  Wasn't  it  for  that  reason, 
knowing  what  they  were  saying,  he  had  kept  her  away 
and  what  was  the  sense  in  telling  her  now  when  it  was 
past? 

He  made  no  answer  and  suddenly  she  went  down  on  her 
knees  on  the  floor  at  his  side,  catching  at  his  arms  and 
searching  his  face. 

"Tell  me!"  she  whispered.  "Can't  I  see  ye  know  why 
a  thing  like  that  would  be  in  her  mind  to  be  doin'  it  to 
me  ?  What  is  it  ?  Shure,  I'm  not  afraid.  I'm  not  afraid !" 

They  did  not  notice  how  it  was  herself  who  first  spoke 
of  fear.  He  put  an  arm  on  her  shoulder  and  held  her 
closely  to  him. 

"Shure,  'tis  only  a  lot  of  talk  they  have  amongst  them- 
selves. Yirra,  what's  talk!  There's  no  hurt  in  it." 

"Well— what  is  their  talk?    What  is  it  they're  sayin'?" 


304  THE  MIRACLE 

She  dragged  it  from  him,  all  he  had  heard  in  the  street 
and  on  the  sea-wall,  at  the  wake  and  when  they  were  burying 
the  body  of  Michael  Kelleher  up  there  in  the  grave-yard. 
It  was  she,  taken  those  two  years  ago  by  Themselves  in  the 
hills  they  were  remembering  and  it  was  that  way  mis- 
fortune had  come  to  the  fisherman,  the  time  she  was  wait- 
ing there  with  her  baby  in  her  arms  by  the  cove. 

"Shure,  what  one  would  be  comin'  home  safe?"  they 
had  asked  each  other,  "with  the  like  of  herself  waitin' 
there  for  them?  Wasn't  it  a  wonder  himself  had  been 
kept  from  harm  these  two  years  with  her  waitin'  always  by 
the  fire?" 

With  the  fast  holding  of  her  hands,  Mary  clung  to  him. 

"Is  it  the  way  ye  believe  that  yeerself !"  she  cried  to  him. 
"Wisha,  God  help  us — isn't  it  a  sweet  time  the  days  have 
been  with  our  two  selves  sittin'  here  and  surely  to  God 
'tis  no  harm  but  the  end  of  yeer  lonesomeness  I've 
brought  ye." 

'  'Tis  a  sweet  time  it's  been,"  he  comforted  her,  "and 
it's  not  meself  could  be  thinkin'  there's  any  harm  comin' 
with  ye  at  all.  Wasn't  it  careless  they  were  with  the 
sweeps  and  wouldn't  that  happen  to  anny  man  if  'twas  the 
diwle  itself  was  waitin'  for  him?" 

He  held  her  so  closely  that  she  clung  to  him  no  more 
but  lay  there  with  little  breaths  now  of  her  weeping  and 
most  of  her  fear  driven  away.  So  long  as  he  did  not 
believe,  that  was  all  she  cared.  Let  her  father  and  all 
of  them  think  what  they  liked!  She  need  never  go  to  the 
farm  again.  Never  any  more  need  she  be  seen  in  the 
street.  But,  oh,  to  be  taken  far  away  from  it  all!  There 
was  completeness  of  life  she  needed,  with  her  child  and 
in  the  strength  of  those  arms  that  were  holding  her. 

With  the  impulse  of  that,  she  was  suddenly  whispering 
in  his  ears  to  take  her  away. 


THE  MIRACLE  305 

"Haven't  ye  money  is  put  by?"  she  pleaded  with  him, 
"and  couldn't  we  go  to  America?  Isn't  there  many  have 
gone  there  to  be  gettin'  away  from  the  starvin'  waste  of 
this  land?  Take  me  away!"  she  begged  of  him,.  "Ah, 
shure,  take  me  away!  Isn't  it  hatin'  this  place  I  am  and 
won't  there  be  new  life  comin*  to  us  over  there?" 

He  set  her  away  from  him,  so  that  she  was  sitting  down 
on  the  floor  at  his  side,  watching  him,  waiting  for  his 
answer,  content  so  long  as  she  could  see  his  thought  of 
it  to  let  him  be  staring  in  a  silence  at  the  fire. 

Presently  he  stood  up.  With  a  sharp  eagerness  her  eyes 
followed  him  as  he  went  to  the  bed.  From  beneath  it, 
where  well  she  knew  it  was,  he  pulled  out  the  same  wooden 
box  that  was  lying  on  the  table  that  night  when  the  priest 
had  helped  him  with  his  counting.  In  a  questioning  silence, 
she  joined  him  as  he  laid  it  on  the  table. 

"Are  we  goin'?"  she  whispered.  "Is  it  really  goin'  away 
from  here  we  are?" 

"What's  the  fear  is  on  ye?"  he  asked  her  gently. 

She  shivered  and  opened  the  lid  of  the  box. 

"Let  ye  begin  countin'  to  see  is  there  enough,"  said  she, 
and  with  her  hands  and  her  reckoning  she  helped,  laying 
out  the  little  heaps  of  measured  pounds  till  they  were  cov- 
ering the  table.  Once  he  stopped  in  his  calculations. 

"D'ye  know  when  I  did  this  last  ?"  said  he. 

She  shook  her  head  and  when  he  told  her,  it  was  some 
unaccountable  fear  she  had,  with  no  room  for  regret  or  even 
a  sadness  in  her  memory. 

"Go  on  countin' !"  she  whispered,  "ye'll  forget  how  much 
it  is.  There's  twenty-four  is  here.  Go  on." 

He  had  drawn  upon  his  savings  for  their  marriage.  Now 
and  again  he  had  given  her  money  to  buy  things  for  her- 
self. There  had  been  the  doctor  from  Doonvarna.  Thirty- 
eight  pounds  was  all  that  remained.  She  looked  up  at  him, 


306  THE  MIRACLE 

eagerly  waiting,  feeling  out  with  her  hand  to  touch  his  arm. 
Her  lips  were  parted.  Life  was  a  pause  with  her,  even  in 
her  breathing. 

"We  could  go,"  he  said  presently,  "and  bi  the  time  I'd 
sold  me  boat  and  the  nets  I  have,  there'd  be  a  matter  of 
twenty  or  thirty  pounds  maybe  for  ourselves  and  we  over 
there.  But  shure,  what  would  I  be  doin'  in  a  strange  place, 
with  no  work  to  me  hands?" 

Weren't  there  fishermen  in  every  land  she  asked  him, 
and  couldn't  he  be  turning  his  hand  to  that  which  suited 
him  best? 

He  led  her  with  him  back  to  the  fire,  seating  himself  and 
holding  both  her  hands  so  that  he  could  be  looking  at  her. 

"Is  it  feared  ye  are  of  the  things  they'd  be  say  in'  of  ye?" 

"It  is,"  said  she. 

"Shure,  words  can't  harm  ye." 

She  knew  only  one  thing  to  say,  that  he  should  take  her 
away  from  that  place  and  it  was  down  on  her  knees  she 
said  it,  pleading  with  the  softness  of  her  voice  and  tears 
gathering  in  pools  in  her  eyes.  For  it  was  not  only  the 
people  in  Ardnashiela  she  felt  were  against  her.  What  did 
she  really  care  for  the  disregard  of  Maggie  Kelleher  or  the 
silence  of  her  father  and  the  furtive  look  now  always  in  his 
eyes  when  he  met  her  own?  She  need  go  no  more  into  the 
village.  Her  father  had  his  paid  hand  to  be  milking  the 
cows  and  doing  the  work  that  she  had  done.  There  was 
no  need  for  her  ever  to  go  to  the  farm  again. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  people  she  feared,  as  this  sense 
that  her  life  itself  was  a  lie  which  something,  stronger  than 
her  motive  to  tell  it,  was  binding  her  to  with  fetters  clamped 
about  her  soul. 

In  those  two  years  she  had  touched  the  hem  of  the  veil 
of  peace.  Forever  this  seemed  to  cast  her  from  it  now. 
Never  among  all  those  about  her  would  she  be  able  to 


THE  MIRACLE  307 

pass  beyond  the  lie  that  guarded  her  and  find  that  full  vision 
of  contentment  her  heart  had  glimpsed  and  now  so  dearly 
longed  for. 

Once  away  from  there,  away  from  them  all,  the  sight 
of  those  hills  of  Doon,  the  desolate  road  through  the  bog- 
land,  it  even  seemed  to  her  she  could  tell  him  all  and  once 
told,  her  life  could  begin  again. 

She  caught  his  hand  in  her  hands,  looking  up  and  plead- 
ing piteously  with  her  eyes. 

"Ye're  the  only  one,"  she  murmured,  "would  believe  I 
was  not  bringin'  harm  to  them  and  how  can  there  be  anny 
joy  at  all  for  me  or  the  both  of  us  with  them  thinkin'  there's 
nothing  but  misfortune  I'd  be  havin*  in  me  face?" 

How  could  he  refuse?  Even  if  it  meant  the  beginning 
of  his  life  all  over  again,  how  could  he  refuse  her?  Was 
there  anything  he  knew  of  in  life  he  would  not  give  her 
if  he  could?  There  was  nothing. 

"We'll  go  away,"  he  said  quietly,  "as  soon  as  the  time  of 
the  fishin'  is  over  this  year  and  I've  got  all  I  can  out  of 
me  boat — we'll  go  away.  Shure,  God  help  us,  haven't  I  pair 
of  hands  and  would  I  break  the  world  for  ye — I  would 
indeed !" 

She  cried  out  aloud  as  she  came  into  his  arms. 


FEAR  is  contagion,  a  slow  and  subtle  fever  reaching 
its  climacteric  by  imperceptible  degrees.  It  is  no 
sudden  disorder  of  the  mind,  but  lingers  and  germi- 
nates in  the  blood,  feeding  here  and  there  upon  the  little 
events  in  the  lives  of  those  who  suffer  from  it. 

For  those  two  years  since  Mary  Kirwan's  disappearance, 
the  disease  had  been  planted  in  the  minds  of  all  those  in 
Ardnashiela  and  in  none  so  virulently  as  in  James  Kirwan. 
There  was  only  Fennel,  the  fisherman,  it  had  not  infected. 
Love  becomes  immune  from  fear.  He  believed  no  less  that 
They  had  taken  her  that  night.  His  faith  in  that  unseen 
world  was  not  diminished.  A  greater  faith  had  set  it  aside. 
No  more  had  happened  to  him  than  that.  She  had  become 
to  him  his  highest  and  closest  touch  with  life. 

This  is  the  determination  of  all;  how  near  and  at  what 
point  of  spiritual  altitude  they  find  their  contact.  In  the 
Christ  story,  the  point  of  altitude  is  such  that  love  conquers 
death,  for  love  is  the  only  emotion,  translated  into  various 
qualities  of  selflessness,  which  lifts  the  contact  with  life 
transcendently  above  the  laws  of  nature. 

There  was  no  vestige  of  that  emotion  in  the  whole  com- 
position of  James  Kirwan.  His  touch  with  life  was  only 
where  nature  laid  her  hands  upon  him.  She  had  laid  her 
hands  upon  him  and  deeply  smitten  him  with  that  fever 
of  fear  since  the  night  of  Mary's  disappearance. 

Secretly  in  his  heart,  he  wished  often  that  Fennel  had 
never  brought  her  back.  Lacking  the  courage  to  tell  her 
openly  that  he  did  not  want  her  help  on  the  farm,  yet  using 

308 


THE  MIRACLE  309 

it  with  no  great  gratitude  when  she  gave  it,  he  had  done 
his  best  to  show  her  she  was  no  longer  welcome  in  her 
home. 

To  his  ears  had  come  easily  the  stories  of  all  those  little 
things  that  had  happened  in  the  village  during  those  two 
years,  for  which  Mary  alone  was  held  responsible.  She 
had  stopped  in  the  street  and  spoken  to  Mrs.  Cotter's  young- 
est girl  as  she  was  passing  by.  The  next  day  the  child 
was  sick  and  brought  to  its  bed  for  two  weeks.  And  what 
was  that'  but  herself  putting  her  eyes  on  her?  God  alone 
knew  what  she  said  for  the  child  was  in  a  fever  and  could 
not  remember  a  word  of  it. 

It  had  rained  the  year  before  when  the  corn  was  being 
cut  and  Mary  was  there  in  the  fields,  sheaf-binding.  There 
had  been  no  sign  of  rain  the  previous  evening.  The  wind 
had  been  set  in  a  dry  quarter  for  three  days  before  and  then 
in  the  midst  of  cutting  the  barley,  it  had  come  down,  sheet- 
ing with  solid  water.  A  good  part  of  the  crop  had  been 
nearly  ruined.  Would  that  have  happened  at  all  if  she  had 
not  been  there  in  the  fields  to  be  bringing  it? 

There  was  no  virtue  of  loyalty  in  him.  Much  that  he 
heard  when  he  was  playing  cards  at  Creasy's  licensed 
house  was  said  in  his  presence  because  he  made  no  conceal- 
ment of  his  suspicions. 

"Didn't  I  always  know,"  said  he  sometimes  at  his  own 
fireside,  "there  was  a  queer  drop  was  in  her?  Hadn't  she 
the  look  of  it  always  in  her  eyes?  Shure  I  knew  well  that 
black  dog  was  one  of  Themselves  with  her.  Didn't  she 
have  it  sleepin'  with  her  in  the  room  at  nights?  Maybe 
'twas  in  her  own  bed  she  had  it.  And  well  I  knew  that 
time  I  had  it  killed  in  the  barley  field,  'twas  not  the  last  bit 
of  harm  she'd  be  bringin'  me." 

He  thought  these  things  to  himself,  by  day  and  night 
sometimes,  when  his  sleep  was  not  coming  to  him.  Through 


310  THE  MIRACLE 

those  two  years  the  fever  accumulated  with  its  poison  in 
his  blood.  And  then  came  the  disaster  to  Fennel's  boat  and 
that  man— God  help  him ! — drowned  in  a  still  sea,  the  way 
it  was  not  the  rough  of  the  waters  had  him  at  all,  but  her- 
self waiting  there  on  the  rocks  had  brought  him  the  mis- 
chance of  his  death. 

He  was  not  the  only  one  who  thought  that,  but  in  him 
it  was  vehement,  rising  above  the  pitch  of  the  hatred  in  his 
fear  to  a  lurking  desire  for  vengeance.  What  difference 
was  there  between  one  who  did  murder  and  another  who 
brought  with  her  the  misfortune  of  death?  He  asked  him- 
self that  question.  He  asked  it  by  his  own  fireside  when 
his  wife  was  not  there  and  the  blind  man,  turning  the  bel- 
lows wheel,  seemed  no  more  than  an  animal  to  whom  he 
might  speak  his  thoughts  aloud. 

"If  it  isn't  murder  to  be  bringin'  death  to  a  man,"  he  ex- 
claimed with  no  context  to  the  thought  he  was  voicing, 
"shure  what  is  it  in  the  name  of  God?" 

The  blind  man  made  no  answer.  In  the  silence  that 
was  expected  of  him,  he  continued  turning  the  bellows 
wheel,  till  the  fire  was  throwing  its  sparks  into  the  black 
mouth  of  the  chimney  and  there  were  red  embers  at  the 
edge  for  him  to  be  lighting  his  pipe. 

No  one  heard  the  storm  of  thunder  that  night  after  Mary 
had  been  for  her  last  time  at  the  farm.  In  all  Ardnashiela 
she  was  the  only  one  lying  awake,  watching  the  sudden 
illuminations  in  the  room  as  the  lightning  flared  through 
their  little  window. 

They  were  going  away.  The  sweetness  of  life  was  hold- 
ing out  its  hands,  beckoning  to  her  once  again.  They  were 
going  away  from  the  sound  of  all  those  memories  that  had 
their  voice  in  the  winds  and  the  breaking  sea,  from  the  sight 
of  them  too  always  remindful  in  the  headlands  of  the  cliffs 
and  that  long  purple  line  of  the  hills  of  Doon. 


THE  MIRACLE  311 

Once,  for  a  time,  she  had  thought  in  the  security  of  her 
growing  contentment,  that  she  could  play  with  those  memo- 
ries— tender  and  gentle  things  that  could  never  hurt  her 
again.  That  which  they  brought  her  now  was  more  terrible 
than  pain.  She  was  afraid. 

With  the  looks  she  had  seen  in  the  eyes  of  every  one,  and 
now  with  what  she  had  heard  and  all  she  could  imagine  was 
yet  untold,  her  memories  and  everything  that  had  happened 
to  her  were  assuming  the  significance  of  some  avenging 
and  relentless  power.  From  every  side  it  seemed  to  be 
approaching  and  surrounding  her.  In  the  sound  of  the 
thunder  that  night,  in  those  quick  vindictive  eyes  of  lightning 
that  peered  with  their  flashes  into  the  room  and  seemed 
above  all  to  be  searching  for  the  dread  that  was  in  her 
soul,  she  felt  the  advancing  presence  of  it. 

There  was  only  one  escape  she  could  see.  That  lay  open, 
a  thread  of  narrow  light  piercing  the  darkness.  They  were 
going  away.  As  soon  as  the  season  of  the  fishing  was 
over,  they  were  leaving  that  place  forever.  It  was  this 
which  seemed  to  her  of  all  the  most  uplifting  proof  of 
Fennel's  love  for  her.  Could  any  man  have  done  more? 

For  well  she  knew  what  a  wrench  it  would  be  to  him 
to  sell  his  boat  and  nets  and  begin  life  again  in  a  new 
world.  Yet  he  had  not  failed  her.  They  were  going  away. 
In  little  more  than  a  month,  the  fishing  would  be  over.  If 
the  weather  did  not  hold,  it  might  be  less. 

His  hand  lay  on  the  pillow  beside  his  head  as  he  slept. 
Through  all  the  noise  of  the  storm,  he  was  breathing  like 
a  child.  His  faith  had  held  with  him  and  had  not  turned 
to  fear.  There  was  no  suspicion  of  her  in  his  heart  as  in 
the  hearts  of  all  those  others.  He  could  lie  beside  her  there 
in  the  restful  peace  of  sleep.  Was  it  true  that  she  brought 
misfortune  to  others  ?  Was  it  misfortune  she  had  brought  to 
the  priest?  Might  she  yet  bring  it  to  him  there  beside  her? 


312  THE  MIRACLE 

A  sharp  cry  of  dread  forced  its  way  between  her  lips. 
Then  a  fork  of  lightning  splashed  the  room  with  a  pallid 
yellow  light.  She  saw  the  hand  with  its  coarse  weather- 
broken  skin  and  the  heavy  knuckles  lying  on  the  pillow 
beside  her. 

It  was  no  delicate  thought  she  had,  except  that  she  would 
not  wake  him.  Just  an  impulsive  gratitude  she  felt.  Gladly 
she  could  have  hidden  herself  in  his  arms.  As  it  was,  she 
kissed  his  hand  and  a  while  later  found  her  sleep. 

The  next  morning,  the  hired  girl  at  the  farm  came  in  from 
the  dairy  into  the  kitchen  to  inform  Kirwan  that  all  the  milk 
of  the  evening  before  had  soured  in  the  pans.  There  was 
no  milk  was  fresh,  she  told  him,  for  him  to  be  selling  in  the 
village  that  day  and  it  might  as  well  be  given  to  the  pigs  for 
all  the  butter  it  would  be  making,  so  rank  it  was. 

The  farmer  looked  at  his  wife.  She  returned  his  glance 
with  no  meaning,  no  expectancy,  no  wonder  in  her  eyes. 

"D'ye  hear  that !"  he  shouted. 

She  nodded  her  head.    She  had  heard. 

"Wasn't  herself  here  yesterday?"  he  asked. 

"She  was,"  replied  the  girl. 

"Was  she  in  the  dairy  at  all?" 

"She  was — askin'  couldn't  she  help  skim  the  milk." 

He  strode  to  the  door  and  took  down  his  hat  from  its  peg. 

"Where  are  ye  goin'?"  asked  Mrs.  Kirwan  imperturbably. 

"Never  mind  where  I'm  goin',"  he  exclaimed  and  went 
out  with  his  coat  flying  open  in  the  wind. 

With  hasty  steps  in  which  there  was  a  driven  impulse 
rather  than  a  desire  for  speed,  he  paced  down  the  farm  road, 
turning  to  the  left  on  the  Doonvarna  road  and  hurrying  on 
till  he  came  to  Shaughnessy's  cabin. 

He  had  to  wake  the  old  man  up  from  his  sleep  and  it  was 
with  no  gentle  hand  he  did  it.  Shaughnessy  sat  blinking  his 
eyes,  with  the  stupor  of  sleep  hanging  heavily  on  the  pale 


THE  MIRACLE  313 

lids.  Without  pause  or  explanation  for  his  coming,  Kirwan 
began  at  once. 

"Didn't  ye  tell  me,  the  day  she  was  married,  'twas  not  a 
sup  of  food  would  pacify  Themselves  always?  Didn't  ye 
tell  me  that?" 

"I  did." 

"Then  what  will  pacify  Them  now,  for  as  long  as  she's 
about  this  place,  'tis  destroyed  I'll  be  with  me  farmin'  and 
the  work  I'd  be  doin'  on  the  land  ?" 

He  enumerated  all  the  things  that  had  happened  in  those 
two  years,  each  one  of  which  he  found  no  difficulty  with  the 
ready  imagination  of  his  suspicions  to  be  relating  to  Mary 
herself.  The  control  of  his  emotions  was  out  of  balance. 
Fear  was  mastering  him  and  riding  his  thoughts  with  the 
spurs  of  hatred. 

He  walked  up  and  down  that  room  with  the  stale  stench 
of  blood  that  was  there  in  his  nostrils,  cursing  the  day  she 
was  born  and  calling  down  the  mercy  of  God  upon  himself 
for  begetting  her. 

"What  can  ye  do  for  me  now !"  she  shouted.  "Wasn't  it 
yeerself,  with  the  charm  ye  had  and  I  puttin'  it  on  the  sill 
of  the  door  that  night,  had  her  brought  back  to  us  and 
amn't  I  wishin'  every  day  since  that  time,  'twas  throwin'  it 
in  the  sea  I  was  the  time  I  was  bringin'  it  home?" 

For  a  long  while,  Shaughnessy  sat  rocking  himself  to  and 
fro  in  his  bed.  As  the  farmer  watched,  the  sharp  twinkle 
of  a  cunning  thought  took  a  light  to  his  eyes. 

"Let  ye  be  workin'  it  out  in  yeer  mind,"  said  he,  "for 
there's  diwle  another  beast  I'll  be  lettin'  ye  have  if  'tis  not 
helpin'  me  through  the  trouble  is  on  me  now." 

The  old  man  made  no  motion  that  he  had  heard.  Without 
his  trade,  there  was  no  living  for  him  in  Ardnashiela.  Five 
miles  away  was  the  nearest  farm.  He  knew  the  soft  bulk 
of  his  limbs  would  not  be  carrying  him  that  distance  to  be 


314  THE  MIRACLE 

fetching  his  sheep.  If  Kirwan  took  to  killing  his  own  beasts 
as  some  of  the  men  did  in  the  isolated  farms  of  that  neigh- 
bourhood, it  was  into  Doonvarna  he  would  have  to  be  going 
in  his  shame  to  the  Union. 

Yet  there  was  no  sign  of  fear  he  betrayed  at  the  sound  of 
Kirwan's  threat.  Just  swaying  himself,  he  sat  there  and  it 
was  a  long  time  before  he  spoke. 

"A  beast's  blood  is  no  good,"  he  said  at  last. 

Kirwan  watched  and  listened  with  his  lips  parted. 

"  Tis  not  the  blood  of  anny  beast  would  pacify  Them- 
selves. Haven't  They  left  her  the  evil  eye  and  'tis  there 
is  the  harm  she's  bringin'.  A  beast's  blood  is  no  good." 

Below  his  breath,  Kirwan  heard  his  voice  muttering  as  he 
asked  was  it  blood  or  what  charm  was  it  at  all  would  ever 
take  away  the  evil  eye  from  one  once  it  was  put  upon  them. 

"If  it  was  her  own  blood  we  could  get,"  said  Shaughnessy 
with  an  impassive  voice. 

There  was  one  thing  he  knew  as  well  as,  if  not  better  than, 
Kirwan.  Not  anything  in  spells  or  charms  could  remove 
the  curse  of  the  evil  eye.  Once  They  had  put  it  upon  man 
or  woman,  there  was  no  contriving  it  away.  Those  in  his 
knowledge  that  had  had  the  stroke  of  it,  it  was  never  safe 
to  be  trusting  oneself  with  them  again. 

He  had  no  fear  as  Kirwan  had,  unless  it  were  his  fear 
of  the  farmer's  threat.  But  it  made  no  coward  of  him.  He 
knew  with  shrewd  intuitiveness  the  kind  of  man  he  dealt 
with.  Cruelty  in  the  butcher  was  a  deep  delight  in  his 
nature.  When  they  saw  him  driving  home  his  beast  for 
the  slaughter,  they  were  close  to  the  truth  when  they  thought 
they  saw  a  gleam  of  joy  in  Shaughnessy's  eyes.  Those  ex- 
piring struggles  of  the  wretched  animal  in  his  hands  were 
moments  to  him  when  he  felt  the  pleasant  sense  of  life,  the 
sense  of  power,  the  consciousness  of  his  own  virility. 

Kirwan  was  far  too  afraid  of  death  to  kill  like  that  in 


THE  MIRACLE  315 

cold  blood  and  find  an  expression  of  the  vigour  of  himself 
in  killing.  In  terror  only  could  he  take  life.  It  was  in  a 
clear  conviction  of  mind  Shaughnessy  knew  that.  This  was 
how  he  had  killed  the  black  dog  in  the  barley  field.  In  such 
a  horror  of  fear  only  would  he  rid  himself  now  of  the  curse 
that  was  upon  them  all.  For  what  but  misfortune  to  him- 
self would  Mary  bring  with  the  evil  that  was  in  her,  if  he 
failed  with  his  charm  and  Kirwan  carried  out  his  threat? 

She  must  be  put  away,  as  the  black  dog  had  been  put  away 
and  that  was  not  like  killing  a  sheep.  He  knew  well  enough 
what  murder  was  and  there  was  no  fear  in  him  great  enough 
for  him  ever  to  commit  it.  The  meaningless  glance  of  his 
eye  lingered  over  Kirwan's  face  as  he  considered  how  the 
witless  fear  of  that  nature  he  knew  so  well  could  be  driven 
to  the  blind  deed  of  murder. 

Her  own  blood !  What  might  not  happen  ?  His  imagina- 
tion worked  in  him  underground,  never  rising  to  the  surface 
of  clear  vision.  He  could  not  foresee  what  would  happen. 
But  her  own  blood!  How  he  did  not  know,  but  it  seemed 
a  step  in  the  direction  he  sought.  Her  own  blood!  The 
sight  of  it  perhaps.  He  felt  none  himself  but  knew  there 
was  fear  in  the  sight  of  blood. 

"If  'twas  her  own  blood  we  could  get,"  he  repeated. 

Kirwan  knew  there  was  a  pallor  over  his  face.  Fear  was 
already  rising  with  his  thoughts  and  the  sight  they  brought 
him — fear  in  a  thin  stream,  oozing  through  the  feeble 
sluice-gates  that  secured  his  soul  against  the  torrent  and 
terror  of  life.  He  felt  the  sweat  start  out  upon  his  lip. 

"Well  then  yeerself  can  get  it,"  he  said  quickly.  "Isn't  it 
handy  ye  are  with  a  knife,  the  way  ye  could  be  drawin'  the 
bad  drop  out  of  her  and  she  not  hurt  at  all?" 

A  smile  of  pity  parted  the  placid  curve  of  Shaughnessy's 
lips.  More  than  ever  like  a  woman  he  looked  in  that  mo- 


316  THE  MIRACLE 

merit,  a  seared  woman  and  old,  smiling  at  the  petulant  folly 
of  a  little  child. 

"Ah  shure,  there's  no  good  meself  doin'  it,"  said  he. 
"Yirra,  what  harm  have  I  had  from  her?  Maybe  Kelleher 
the  smith,  would  do  it  for  the  misfortune  she  brought  on 
himself.  But  'tis  your  own  blood  she  is  and  I  wouldn't 
swear  what  way  the  charm  would  work  if  'twas  anny  but 
yeerself  did  it." 

"How  will  I  get  it?" 

"Faith,  isn't  it  easy  enough  to  be  slippin'  a  little  bit  of  her 
skin  with  a  knife?" 

"Easy!  Shure,  glory  be,  isn't  there  himself  there  is  al- 
ways with  her.  I  wouldn't  dare  be  touchin'  a  hair  of  her 
head  while  he'd  be  in  the  place." 

"Can't  ye  get  her  down  to  the  farm  ?" 

"I  might." 

"  'Tis  the  only  way  to  be  riddin'  yeerself  of  the  bad  drop 
is  in  her,"  said  Shaughnessy,  "and  that's  not  so  sure  as 
what  might  be." 

"What's  that?"  Kirwan  wet  his  lips. 

The  old  man  squeezed  the  water  out  of  his  eyes  and  from 
his  fingers  flicked  the  drop  of  it  on  to  the  floor. 

"Oh — there's  no  talkin'  about  the  other,"  said  he.  "Let 
ye  be  doin'  what  I  tell  ye  and  maybe  she'll  never  trouble  ye 
again." 

It  was  all  against  his  will  and  with  fear  driving  him  that 
Kirwan  enquired  what  other  way  he  meant.  He  had  a  dread 
to  be  hearing  it  in  an  apprehension  of  what  it  was,  yet  the 
words  came  involuntarily  from  his  lips. 

"Maybe  'twould  be  easier,"  said  he. 

Fear  clung  to  the  little  hopes  he  had. 

Shaughnessy  shook  his  head  and,  in  the  silence  through 
which  they  looked  at  each  other,  all  understanding  passed.  It 
was  the  sure  way,  that  other  way — the  way  he  had  rid  him- 


THE  MIRACLE  317 

self  of  the  curse  of  the  black  dog.  The  old  man  was  quite 
right.  There  was  no  talking  about  the  other.  He  had  not 
talked  about  it  that  day  he  had  taken  the  dog  out  into  the 
barley  field. 

He  shuddered  with  the  terror  there  was  in  life. 


VI 

FOR  the  next  few  days  in  the  fields  or  the  yard  or  by 
the  kitchen  fire,  Kirwan  pondered  over  Shaughnessy's 
advice,  contriving  and  scheming  in  his  mind  how  it 
could  be  carried  out.  He  feared  the  violence  of  Fennel  and 
had  that  been  all,  would  never  have  persisted.  But  the 
physical  fear  of  violence  was  nothing  in  him  to  those  appre- 
hensions and  forebodings  which  lurked  in  hidden  thoughts 
and  leapt  upon  him  unawares.  And  when  he  had  achieved 
the  thing  he  sought  to  do,  would  it  avail?  Was  there  not 
only  one  way  to  rid  himself  forever  of  the  curse  she  had 
brought  upon  his  house?  And  that  would  be  murder.  He 
was  amazed  to  find  that  that  thought  did  not  frighten  him. 
Almost  dispassionately  he  could  regard  it,  telling  himself  a 
man  would  be  a  fool  indeed  to  risk  his  neck,  though  God 
knew,  anything  was  better  than  the  terrors  of  a  thing  unseen. 
Still,  so  long  as  it  was  not  close  about  him  then,  he  could 
reason  with  himself.  It  was  in  those  troubled  contempla- 
tions, a  fretting  irritant  to  all  his  thoughts,  that  sometimes 
he  spoke  aloud  and  heard  no  sound  of  his  voice. 

"Ye  couldn't  do  it,"  he  muttered  one  evening.  "It  isn't 
in  ye  to  be  doin'  it." 

"Be  doin'  what?"  asked  Mrs.  Kirwan,  searching  his  face. 

He  started  to  the  consciousness  of  what  he  must  have 
said,  and,  mumbling  an  evasive  answer,  had  gone  out  into 
the  fields  where  the  night  was  falling,  walking  up  and  down 
through  the  stubble,  mistrusting  his  own  tongue. 

When  Mary  had  not  come  down  to  the  farm  for  three 
days,  he  grew  easier  in  his  thoughts.  Fear  turned  to  pro- 

316 


THE  MIRACLE  319 

crastination.  If  only  she  would  keep  away  no  harm  might 
come  of  her.  It  was  the  very  sound  of  that  word — blood — 
that  frightened  him.  By  the  time  a  week  had  passed  and 
she  had  made  no  appearance,  his  fears,  easily  roused  and 
easily  soothed,  had  fallen  from  the  sharp  stress  of  fever. 
Only  when  he  remembered  the  hatred  she  had  flung  at  him 
that  night  when  he  had  spoken  to  her  of  Fennel,  did  he 
doubt  his  wisdom  of  postponement.  He  had  laughed  and 
made  nothing  of  it  then,  but  for  all  the  offers  of  her  help 
about  the  place,  he  knew  well  how  hatred  like  that,  as  she 
had  spoken  it,  with  quick  light  in  her  eyes  and  the  thin, 
white  line  of  her  lips,  does  not  easily  die  in  a  living  heart. 
And  now,  with  the  power  of  evil  that  she  had,  at  what  mo- 
ment and  in  what  way  might  she  not  hurt  him  with  her 
vengeance  ? 

But  to  draw  that  bad  drop  of  blood  from  her !  In  quieter 
moments,  he  was  not  blind  to  the  craze  of  madness  of  which 
fear  could  drive  him.  While  he  was  beating  out  the  life  of 
the  black  dog  in  the  barley  field,  he  had  known  nothing  of 
what  he  did.  But  afterwards  he  had  seen  himself  when 
terror  was  gone.  It  was  mad  he  had  been.  He  knew  and 
admitted  that.  The  sight  of  the  blood  of  the  little  beast 
and  the  life  that  was  still  in  it  had  frenzied  him.  Supposing 
she  would  not  consent — that  she  struggled — that  he  cut 
deeper  than  he  meant! 

He  sickened  sometimes  at  the  sight  of  the  pictures  his 
imagination  recalled  to  him.  Only  too  ready  was  he  to 
procrastinate.  He  made  no  comment  upon  her  absence.  He 
sent  no  message  asking  for  her  help.  All  he  did  in  prepara- 
tion was  to  sharpen  his  knife  upon  the  grindstone  in  the 
yard — glad  when  it  was  done — glad  when  it  was  lying  back 
again  in  the  depth  of  his  pocket  out  of  sight. 

To  Mary,  going  down  into  the  village  as  the  evening  fell 
and  only  when  it  was  necessary  to  buy  food  at  Foley's  shop, 


320  THE  MIRACLE 

ignorant  of  those  things  that  were  happening  at  the  farm, 
time  dragged  itself  by  in  a  weary  procession  of  days.  Fen- 
nel could  make  no  certain  promise  that  they  would  go  to 
America.  Nevertheless  he  had  given  his  word  that  as  soon 
as  the  fishing  season  was  over,  they  would  leave  Ardnashiela 
and  North  or  East  or  whichever  way  it  was,  they  would  put 
the  long  miles  between  them  and  that  place. 

Once  she  was  sure  of  this,  then,  as  in  the  manner  of  slow 
water  falling  drop  by  drop,  the  days  began  to  loiter  away 
with  her  counting  of  them.  It  was  not  difficult  to  hide  her 
fears  from  him.  A  smile  could  dispel  his  suspicions.  He 
had  promised  more  than  it  had  seemed  possible  that  any  man 
would  do  for  a  woman.  Summoning  all  her  courage,  she  set 
herself  to  face  those  remaining  weeks  with  a  cheerfulness 
that  should  hide  her  distress  from  him.  Partly  it  was  hidden 
from  herself.  She  did  not  actually  know  herself  what  it 
was  she  feared. 

The  sense  of  calamity  was  about  her.  She  was  aware  of 
little  more  than  that.  Every  time  she  went  down  into  the 
village,  even  in  the  dark  of  evening,  there  were  sullen 
glances  from  those  who  had  once  looked  at  her  with  pity. 

She  was  half  conscious,  without  the  materialisation  of 
words  to  name  it  in  her  thoughts,  of  a  power  to  do  her  harm. 
It  was  not  in  this  person  or  in  that.  It  was  not  in  Maggie 
Kelleher  she  feared  it,  or  in  any  one  of  those  who  sped  their 
sombre  looks  across  her  as  she  passed  down  the  street. 
There  were  those  in  Foley's  shop  who  drew  away  from  her 
when  she  went  in.  Her  fear  was  not  of  these.  In  all  that 
place  there  seemed  to  be  not  only  the  wish  to  do  her  evil, 
but  behind  it  some  indefinite  force,  slowly  encompassing  her 
just  as  she  had  seemed  to  feel  the  ghosts  of  death  surround- 
ing her  that  evening  in  the  Gap  of  Doon. 

In  some  voiceless  instinct  of  perception,  she  reached  the 
faint  recognition  of  their  faith.  It  was  far  from  her  power 


THE  MIRACLE  321 

to  realise  its  deep  significance.  It  was  not  in  her  to  appre- 
ciate how  life  treads  always,  however  wide  its  hold,  upon 
the  verges  of  the  unknown.  She  could  not  have  reasoned 
how  with  just  that  quality  of  faith  it  leans  out  into  the  void 
and,  with  its  beliefs,  preserves  itself  from  the  abomination 
of  desolation  in  the  supportless  realms  of  space. 

All  in  sensation  that  she  felt  in  conscious  impulse  was 
the  craving  desire  to  shout  aloud  the  truth,  to  cry  out  to 
them,  there  in  the  street,  that  it  was  none  of  the  faeries  that 
had  taken  her,  but  life  only  in  a  mad  moment  of  love.  Then 
they  would  understand  the  empty  folly  of  all  they  believed 
and  if  it  was  shame  it  brought  her,  there  were  moments 
when  even  that  seemed  better  than  this  accumulating  sus- 
picion of  evil,  gathering  with  all  the  sounds  of  fate  about 
her. 

Nothing  but  her  care,  her  pride  and  tenderness  for  her 
man  held  her  from  this  as  the  days  went  by.  As  well  there 
was  the  faint  light  of  that  narrow  way  of  escape,  distant 
though  it  seemed  those  days,  beyond  which  she  had  her  mo- 
ments of  vision  of  the  sweetness  of  life  she  had  known  with 
her  child  and  him.  With  all  the  courage  in  her  soul,  arming 
her  against  the  heaped  forebodings  of  fate,  she  summoned 
the  strength  of  her  spirit  to  meet  the  weary  waiting  of  the 
days. 

The  weather  held.  The  wind  from  the  West  persisted. 
Nearly  every  day  there  were  shoals  of  sprat  and  mackerel 
and  quantities  of  pollock  and  whiting  in  the  Bay. 

"If  we  go  on  this  way,"  Fennel  informed  her,  "  'twill 
be  the  best  year  ever  I  had  at  the  fishin'.  Maybe  'tis  to 
America  we'll  be  goin'  yet." 

No  one  was  catching  fish  anywhere  else  along  the  coast. 
Fennel  was  sometimes  taking  his  hauls  into  Doonvarna 
around  the  headlands  and  getting  an  exceptional  price  for 
them. 


322  THE  MIRACLE 

He  laughed  at  the  good  fortune  that  was  coming  to  him. 

"  Tis  none  of  the  bad  luck  ye're  bringin'  me,"  he  said  to 
her.  "Didn't  I  know  always  'twas  the  kindness  of  life  ye 
had  for  me  from  that  day  when  I  first  saw  ye  milkin'  the 
cows  ?" 

She  laughed  with  him,  but  felt  none  of  it  in  her  heart. 
When  would  it  end,  she  cried  to  herself.  When  would  the 
weather  break  and  the  wind  turn  ?  Each  morning  when  first 
she  woke,  she  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  little  ships  of 
the  lofty  clouds,  sailing  high  above  the  water  line  with  no 
freight  of  rain. 

They  were  always  coming  from  the  West. 

It  was  about  ten  days  after  her  last  visit  to  the  farm, 
when  Fennel  was  out  with  the  nets  in  the  middle  of  the  bay 
where  she  could  see  his  boat  at  work.  She  was  sitting  in 
the  open  doorway,  for  even  the  far  sight  of  him  out  there  on 
the  water  was  a  comfort  to  the  timid  thing  her  heart  had 
become. 

Except  when  there  was  a  burying  in  the  grave-yard  on 
that  upper  road,  few  passed  that  way.  The  cliff  road,  where 
they  had  lived  before,  was  shorter  to  the  headlands.  When- 
ever she  heard  any  one  coming,  she  withdrew  into  the  cot- 
tage and  closed  the  door,  watching  who  it  was  from  within 
behind  the  pieces  of  lace  curtain  she  had  hung  in  the 
window. 

The  sun  was  as  hot  as  ever  that  morning — the  clouds  as 
high,  the  wind  as  faintly  blowing  in  a  steady  stream  of 
warmth  from  the  West.  Presently,  as  she  sat  there  sewing, 
a  sound,  familiar  more  in  her  heart  than  her  ears,  grew  into 
the  silence  around  her.  She  held  her  needle  with  a  stitch 
half  made.  It  was  the  tapping — tapping — tapping  of  a  stick 
along  the  road. 

With  no  thought  conscious  to  arrest  it,  her  heart  stood 
still.  She  stood  up  and  stepped  down  from  the  doorway  and 


THE  MIRACLE  323 

saw  what  she  had  supposed.  It  was  the  blind  man  from  the 
farm.  Had  he  taken  the  wrong  road?  What  was  he  doing 
there?  Did  he  know  it  was  only  to  the  cliffs  that  way  could 
lead  him? 

She  stood  there  on  the  roadside  silent,  waiting  to  see  what 
he  would  do.  If  it  was  blind  he  had  been  from  his  birth, 
the  sense  of  touch  he  had,  served  him  with  faithful  precision. 
Feeling  the  grass  tufts  at  the  side  of  the  road,  he  came 
steadily  onward  towards  her  with  unerring  steps. 

On  the  further  side  was  a  steep  grass  bank,  sloping 
precipitately  to  the  backs  of  the  cottages  on  the  cliff  road. 
With  true  judgment  for  his  safety,  he  had  chosen  his  path 
on  that  side  on  which  the  cottage  stood.  There  the  bank  rose 
above  him.  If  he  strayed  from  his  path,  he  could  only  fall 
against  it. 

What  was  it  he  wanted?  If  he  was  leaving  the  farm 
again,  why  had  he  come  that  way  ?  She  waited,  almost  with 
her  breath  held  as  she  watched  his  approach. 

With  the  first  outer  wall  of  the  cottage,  the  grass  tufts 
ceased.  His  stick,  feeling  out  like  the  antennas  of  a  moth 
in  the  blindness  of  light,  struck  the  stone  of  the  wall.  He 
paused  and  raised  his  head.  She  could  see  the  knowledge 
with  its  accompaniment  of  calculation  that  had  come  to  him. 
Then,  tapping  the  wall,  he  came  on.  She  slipped  into  the 
open  door  before  he  was  near. 

Along  the  wall,  his  stick  came  tapping  and  then,  waving  it, 
with  sensing  curves  and  motions  in  the  open  space  of  the 
door,  he  stopped  and  raised  his  hand  again. 

"Are  ye  there,  Mary  Fennel?"  he  said,  as  though  even  in 
that  silence,  he  were  certain  of  her  presence,  he  had  not  even 
raised  his  voice  to  call  her.  It  was  in  the  mere  address  of  his 
words  that  he  spoke  out. 

"What  is  it  ye  want,  blind  man?"  she  murmured. 

"Is  himself  there?" 


324  THE  MIRACLE 

"He  is  not." 

"Is  he  out  in  the  Bay  with  the  wind  is  in  the  West?" 

"He  is." 

"Himself  at  the  farm  is  wantin'  ye." 

She  swallowed  back  a  sensation  in  her  throat. 

"What's  he  wantin'  me  for?" 

"There  was  a  cow  died  in  the  sudden  throw  of  a  stroke 
this  morning." 

She  summoned  the  sound  of  her  voice  in  her  throat. 

"What's  that  to  do  with  meself  ?"  she  asked. 

He  did  not  answer  that. 

"  'Twas  himself  told  me  to  tell  ye  to  be  comin'  down  to 
the  farm,"  he  said,  "and  shure,  haven't  I  told  ye?  I  have 
indeed." 

He  turned  up  the  white  of  his  eye-balls  and  with  such 
direction  of  his  blindness  as  he  could  imbue  them  with,  he 
rested  them  on  her  eyes  as  he  leant  forward  into  the  doorway. 

"Don't  go,"  he  whispered.    "  'Tis  I'm  tellin'  ye— don't  go." 

When  he  had  said  that,  he  turned  away.  Down  the  length 
of  the  cottage  wall  his  stick  tapped  loudly  and  then  fell  to  a 
muffled  note  as  it  beat  once  more  upon  the  tufts  of  grass  at 
the  roadside. 


VII 

MARY  slept  ill  that  night.  She  told  her  husband 
nothing  of  the  visit  of  the  blind  man.  The  pre- 
sentiment that  something  would  happen  to  prevent 
their  going  away  was  shadowed  across  every  thought  that 
passed  in  her  mind.  If  she  were  to  tell  Fennel  of  her  fears 
that  her  father  wished  to  do  her  harm,  that  might  happen 
which  would  fall  across  her  slender  passage  of  escape.  The 
fisherman  was  not  one  to  bear  malice,  but  nothing  would 
ever  have  induced  an  affection  in  him  for  James  Kirwan, 
while  the  slightest  offence  against  a  thing  so  near  to  his 
heart  as  Mary  might  easily  rouse  him  to  the  vehemence  of 
hatred. 

All  that  had  happened  she  kept  closely  to  herself.  When 
Fennel  informed  her  they  had  lost  a  cow  down  at  the  farm, 
information  of  common  property  he  had  heard  the  moment 
his  boat  came  in,  she  professed  to  have  heard  it  for  the  first 
time. 

Again  that  night  before  he  went  to  sleep,  she  asked  him, 
as  she  had  done  so  many  times  in  the  last  few  days,  when  he 
thought  the  fishing  would  be  over. 

"How  much  longer  will  the  wind  last  in  the  West?"  she 
said. 

Sleep  was  close  about  him,  hovering  on  his  eyes.  He  mur- 
mured something  about  good  promise  in  the  fall  of  the  sun 
and  then  sleep  had  him  away  from  her.  She  lay  alone  with 
her  wakefulness,  watching  the  stars  that  hung  like  dew  in 
a  cobweb  through  the  mesh  of  her  lace  curtains.  The  first 
film  of  dawn  had  swept  them  away  before  she  found  her 

325 


326  THE  MIRACLE 

release  and  lay  with  such  little  peace  as  there  was  in 
her  dreams  beside  him. 

After  his  breakfast  in  the  morning,  Fennel  went  down  to 
the  sea-wall  to  mend  a  patch  in  his  net. 

"Can't  ye  use  that  one  is  hangin'  over  the  rafter?"  she 
asked  him,"  and  be  sittin'  with  meself  this  mornin'  till  they 
call  ye  out  for  the  boat?" 

He  laid  a  hand  about  her  shoulder.  He  told  her  he  had 
used  that  net  all  those  days  that  his  good  luck  was  coming 
to  him  and  it  was  not  putting  it  aside  he'd  be  then  for  the 
mere  stretch  of  a  rent  was  in  it. 

"Shure  come  and  sit  down  with  me  yeerself,  on  the  sea- 
wall. There's  the  full  warmth  of  the  sun  is  there  in  that 
place." 

He  stopped.  For  the  moment  until  he  saw  her  eyes,  he 
had  forgotten  the  things  they  were  all  saying  and  the  wish 
there  was  in  her  to  be  away  forever  from  Ardnashiela. 

"Ye  never  go  out  at  all  these  days,"  he  said  in  another 
tone. 

She  had  her  baby  in  her  arms  and  did  no  more  than  look 
at  it  and  then  at  him.  He  took  the  little  creature's  face  in 
his  fingers.  The  skin  of  its  cheeks  was  soft  like  the  skin  of 
a  mushroom  and  his  hands  knotted  and  dark  as  the  twisted 
roots  of  a  tree. 

"Doesn't  he  sleep  at  all?"  he  asked,  "and  couldn't  ye  be 
slippin'  out  for  a  while  then?  There's  warm  health  for  ye 
in  the  light  of  the  sun." 

She  would  have  health  enough,  she  told  him,  once  they 
were  away  from  Ardnashiela  with  the  peace  that  would  be 
for  her  then.  She  roused  the  courage  to  smile  and  put  up 
her  face  when  she  had  said  it,  asking  with  her  eyes  for  a  kiss 
from  him  and,  as  he  kissed  her,  she  said — 

"I've  never  said  I  loved  ye,  Joe  Fennel." 

"Ye  have  not,"  said  he. 


THE  MIRACLE  327 

"Then  God  hears  me  sayin'  it  now,"  she  whispered. 

He  went  out  of  the  door  and  down  the  slope  of  the  bank 
to  a  passage  between  the  cottages  on  the  cliff  road.  There 
were  some  through  their  open  doors  heard  him  singing  as  he 
walked  down  to  the  sea-wall,  and  wondered  what  there  could 
be  to  drag  a  song  out  of  him  with  the  wife  he  had. 

Mary  stood  looking  after  him  till,  head  and  shoulders,  he 
dropped  out  of  sight  below  the  sharp  descent  of  the  bank. 

That  was  true  what  she  had  said.  Tenderness  had  turned 
to  love,  so  different  from  that  she  had  once  known  as  to  seem 
a  language  in  another  tongue  and  in  another  world.  She 
thought  of  that  other  now  as  of  some  miracle  that  had  hap- 
pened, Fate  choosing  her  out  for  the  hidden  meaning  of  it. 
For  surely  if  this  was  love,  this  quiet  gentleness  she  felt  in 
her  heart  for  her  man,  it  was  no  less  than  a  miracle  that 
other  could  have  been.  Out  of  time  and  space  and  the  world 
about,  it  had  lifted  her.  She  was  all  too  conscious  of  what 
was  happening  and  could  happen  to  her  now. 

Here  she  had  no  faith  or  trust  in  life.  But  then  her  belief 
in  the  wonder  of  it  transcended  circumstance.  It  had 
had  wings.  It  flew  as  the  gulls  flew  over  the  headlands, 
mounting  the  utmost  pinnacles  of  the  wind,  casting  them- 
selves down,  immune,  with  rigid  wing  into  the  abysses  of 
the  storm. 

She  loved  now.  That  was  true.  A  gentle  fashion  of  love 
only  that  had  no  urging  passion  of  faith  in  it  to  nerve  her 
heart  against  that  void  of  the  unknown.  Even  in  Fennel's 
strength  and  the  close  protection  of  his  arm,  she  had  no 
wholesome  trust.  There  was  something  beyond  her  in  that 
place,  from  which,  with  all  the  confidence  she  had  in  him, 
he  could  not  save  her. 

These  were  her  presentiments.  Only  the  day  before  that 
visit  of  the  blind  man  had  intensified  them.  She  did  not 
know  what  that  something  was,  but  surely  she  felt  the  heavy 


328  THE  MIRACLE 

oppression  of  its  presence.  Sometimes  she  even  wondered 
whether  it  would  not  pursue  her  wherever  they  went.  Never 
once  in  her  love  for  Father  Costello  had  she  felt  the  pressing 
weight  of  evil.  She  allowed  that  she  had  committed  sin,  but 
sin  for  which  it  seemed  to  her  there  was  ease  of  absolution. 
It  was  not  this  that  followed  her  mind  with  fear,  but  more 
the  consciousness  of  that  false  foundation  upon  which  now 
the  whole  of  her  life  was  built. 

With  the  indeterminate  wanderings  of  these  thoughts, 
Fennel  left  her  that  morning  when  he  went  down  to  the  sea- 
wall. For  a  long  while  she  stood  at  the  doorway  in  the 
bright  heat  of  the  sun,  pursuing  one  consideration  after 
another  to  its  vague  and  inconclusive  issue.  When  at  last 
her  eyes  settled  with  a  changed  focus  upon  things  she  saw, 
her  baby  was  asleep  in  her  arms. 

He  surely  was  something  no  retribution  in  life  could  rob 
her  of.  She  touched  her  lips  first  upon  one  of  his  eyes  and 
then  upon  the  other.  He  did  not  wake.  Carrying  him  over 
to  the  bed,  she  laid  him  down. 

Now  she  might  be  slipping  out  for  a  while — an  hour  out 
there  alone  on  the  headlands.  More  and  more  did  her  pre- 
sentiments drive  her  to  carry  by  herself  the  burden  of  her 
thoughts.  She  kissed  her  baby  again,  mere  breaths  of  kisses 
about  his  neck  and  in  the  soft  yellow  down  of  his  hair,  then, 
closing  the  door  behind  her,  she  went  out. 

The  day  was  cloudless,  the  West  wind  faint  and  fitful  that 
carried  with  it  the  cries  of  the  gulls  out  at  sea  and  again  in 
moments  let  them  fall  to  a  breathless  stillness. 

Just  such  a  day  as  that  it  had  been  when  she  had  first  gone 
out  in  the  boat  with  Fennel  and  seen  that  black  figure,  painted 
without  motion  against  the  face  of  the  rocks. 

Her  mind  wandered  uneasily  about  her  memories,  seeking 
release  from  her  forebodings  in  this  or  that,  then,  one  after 
another,  casting  them  worthless  aside.  There  was  some 


THE  MIRACLE  329 

shiftless  spirit  of  disquiet  in  her  mind  she  could  not  escape. 
She  had  had  it  the  night  before.  She  had  wakened  with  it  in 
the  morning.  It  would  not  be  put  away. 

In  a  sudden  moment,  one  of  those  imperative  fears  which 
leap  into  being  unawares,  started  in  her  thoughts  the  appre- 
hension of  an  unknown  danger  to  her  child.  Notwithstand- 
ing all  her  efforts  to  put  it  away,  the  folly  of  it  clung  to  her. 
Yet  what  harm  could  come  to  him  ?  He  was  sure  to  sleep  for 
an  hour  at  least.  For  scarcely  fifteen  minutes  had  she  been 
out.  She  tried  to  force  herself  to  walk  on.  If  apprehension 
as  unreasonable  as  this  should  master  her,  what  mercy  or 
quiet  would  there  be  for  her  in  life  at  all? 

She  knew  just  how  far  it  was  to  go  back,  yet  there  was  the 
impulsive  desire  in  her  mind  just  to  see  and  measure  it  with 
her  eye.  She  looked  round  over  her  shoulder. 

On  the  cliff  path  by  the  first  headland,  she  saw  the  figure 
of  a  man.  For  an  instant  she  stood  still.  In  all  those  wide 
stretches  of  heather  and  gorse  and  rock,  across  that  still 
breadth  of  sea,  there  seemed  no  life  but  his  and  hers.  In 
every  sense  of  her  body  all  of  nature  seemed  dead  to  her  but 
just  the  life  there  was  in  him  and  the  life  there  was  in  her. 
The  world  about  her  was  empty  and  void.  Every  memory, 
every  thought  and  every  hope  she  had  clung  to  to  save  herself 
from  that  falling  over  the  verge  of  the  unknown,  snatched 
their  support  away.  It  was  her  father. 

She  looked  about  her  with  quick,  starting  eyes.  There  was 
no  debate  in  her  mind,  no  question  of  why  he  sought  her 
there  or  whether  it  was  her  he  sought  at  all.  Her  one  thought 
was  to  get  away. 

Over  the  rise  of  the  next  headland  was  the  edge  of  rock 
below  the  cliff's  edge  where  she  had  talked  that  morning  with 
the  priest.  It  could  not  be  seen  from  the  top  of  the  cliff. 
There  was  no  beaten  path  to  it.  There  was  hiding  there. 
She  caught  her  breath  and  she  ran.  Over  the  rise  of  the 


330  THE  MIRACLE 

headland  she  would  be  out  of  sight.    He  would  not  see  where 
she  had  gone. 

A  witlessness  was  come  to  her  now  in  all  her  thoughts. 
Did  she  think  he  would  never  find  her  ?  Did  she  think  she 
could  stay  there  all  night?  Was  there  real  cause  for  her  to 
be  running  away  from  him  at  all?  Two  thoughts  had  the 
high  voice  of  terror  in  her  mind  above  all  others.  She  was 
remembering  him  that  evening  in  the  barley  field  when  he 
killed  her  dog.  She  was  hearing  the  voice  of  the  blind  man 
as  he  said,  "Don't  go — 'tis  I'm  tellin'  ye — don't  go !" 

At  the  crest  of  the  headland's  rise  she  looked  back  over 
her  shoulder  again.  He  was  running  as  well.  Then  a  faint 
cry  leapt  from  her  lips  as  she  sped  on. 

It  seemed  to  her  in  her  descent  of  the  cliff  as  her  feet 
slipped  over  the  loose  stones,  that  now  it  was  only  the  repeti- 
tion of  life,  the  fateful  recurrence  of  what  had  happened 
when  she  was  struggling  over  the  potato  field  and  heard  those 
two  gun  shots  in  the  still  air.  Or  again  in  the  Gap  of  Doon 
when  the  mist  had  flung  down  upon  her  from  the  hillside, 
pursuing  her  with  the  ghosts  of  death.  Now,  here  once  more, 
pursuit.  No  step  she  took  held  for  her.  The  stones  rattled 
down  the  face  of  the  cliff  and  fell  with  deep  sounds  into  the 
caverns  and  hollows  below. 

Breath  was  exhausted  and  all  strength  gone  from  her  when 
she  reached  the  ledge  of  rock.  In  the  fierce  sunlight  she  lay 
there,  her  face  against  the  hot  stone,  with  the  sea  pinks  in 
bloom  about  her.  Between  the  distress  of  her  breathing,  she 
listened  with  every  sense.  The  cries  of  the  gulls  passed  her 
on  a  breath  of  wind.  Then  there  was  silence.  They  passed 
again.  Then  silence  once  more — silence — all  silence. 

At  last,  from  the  cliff  above  her,  the  faint  sound  of  her 
name. 

The  stillness  of  death  lay  upon  her.  Only  her  nostrils 
worked  for  her  breath.  When  she  heard  it  again  it  was 


THE  MIRACLE  331 

nearer.  Had  he  seen  her  make  the  beginning  of  her  descent  ? 
Would  he  find  her  in  the  end?  What  did  he  come  for? 
What  did  he  want  ?  She  rose  to  her  knees  to  listen.  In  the 
warm  quiet  of  that  sunlight,  where  there  were  bees  hum- 
ming over  the  heather  tufts,  and  rock  pigeons  flying  with  no 
alarm  between  the  headlands,  and  a  few  sheep  grazing  peace- 
fully on  the  short  grass  of  the  cliffs  above,  there  she  was 
kneeling  with  hands  clutching  together  and  lips  parted  in 
terror  that  was  painted  on  her  white  face  like  a  pale  mask. 

There  and  like  that,  Kirwan  found  her.  It  was  as  though 
fate  had  chased  her  to  its  end.  She  could  not  move.  She 
could  not  cry  out.  She  stared  at  him. 

"What  was  it  ye  were  runnin'  for  and  hidin'  down  here  ?" 
he  asked  her  with  short  breaths. 

Even  to  that  she  could  not  reply. 

"Why  didn't  ye  come  down  yesterday  to  the  farm  when 
I  sent  for  ye?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  stood  unsteadily  to  her  feet, 
moving  such  distance  as  the  narrow  ledge  would  give  her 
from  him. 

"Did  the  blind  man  tell  ye  what  happened  on  us  yester- 
day?" 

"He  did." 

"Did  ye  know  the  milk  was  soured  a  week  or  so  ago  ?" 

Her  answer  was  in  her  breath.    He  did  not  hear  it. 

"And  me  crops  have  been  spoilt  on  me  and  Cotter's  child 
was  sick  a  while  back,  and  weren't  ye  waitin'  there  on  the 
rocks  the  time  Michael  Kelleher  got  his  death?" 

He  had  said  it  all,  the  whole  count  of  her  arraignment. 
When  he  saw  that  mask  of  horror  on  her  face,  it  was  not,  he 
felt,  that  she  was  afraid  of  him.  More  and  more  as  he  stood 
there  with  her  close  in  that  place,  the  sheer  cliff  dropping 
down  three  hundred  feet  and  more  into  the  sea,  fear  of  her 
was  lifting  to  a  panic  of  alarm  in  him. 


332  THE  MIRACLE 

Why  had  he  trusted  himself  there  with  her  ?  Wasn't  it  a 
fool  he  had  been  to  be  coming  out  there  on  the  cliffs  alone 
with  one  had  the  power  of  evil  that  was  hers.  As  they  stood 
there,  staring  at  each  other,  the  very  sound  of  their  breathing 
was  a  frightening  noise  in  his  ears.  He  spoke  again  to  hear 
himself  speaking. 

"There's  a  bad  drop  is  in  ye,"  he  said,  "aren't  they  all 
sayin'  that  ?  Tis  not  meself  only." 

His  hand  felt  to  his  pocket.  The  knife  was  ready  there. 
Fixed  as  her  eyes  were  upon  his  face,  they  were  swift  away 
to  see  that  movement  of  his  hand. 

"What  is  it  ye're  goin  to  do  to  me  ?"  she  cried  out. 
The  note  in  her  voice  shrilled  through  him  and  sickened 
his  heart  with  misgiving.  That  cry,  as  of  one  terrorised  in 
sleep,  has  the  voice  of  the  lowest  instincts  in  it.  It  is  scarce 
human.  He  heard  it  then.  It  was  of  something  that  was  not 
human  in  her.  He  wished,  with  the  name  of  God  muttered 
in  his  throat,  he  had  never  come  out  there  to  that  place  alone. 
"Be  still,  blast  ye!"  said  he — but  much  more  it  was  his 
own  heart  he  was  silencing.  And  then  he  told  why  it  was  he 
had  sent  for  her  and  what  it  was  he  wanted  now  that  he  had 
followed  her  out  there.  She  listened,  smothering  the  sound 
of  her  breathing  with  her  hand  against  her  mouth. 

Her  blood !  And  it  was  Shaughnessy  had  told  him !  She 
saw  him  then  again  when  he  moved  towards  her,  as  she  had 
seen  him  in  the  barley  field  with  the  frenzy  of  fear  fuming 
to  murder  in  his  face.  All  this  was  a  trick  and  no  mere  folly 
of  belief.  Her  blood !  She  knew  well  what  he  meant  to  do. 
That  cajoling  note  in  his  voice!  That  was  how  he  had 
enticed  the  dog  out  of  the  house  and  then  dragged  it  away 
to  the  seclusion  of  the  fields,  as  here  he  had  driven  her.  Her 
blood !  It  was  all  her  life  he  wanted. 

Every  need  and  desire  there  was  in  her  then  for  living 
sped  in  vivid  thoughts  and  loud-sounding  voices  through  her 


THE  MIRACLE  333 

mind.  She  must  live!  How  could  she  die  there  in  that 
sudden  moment  without  word  of  a  priest  in  her  ears!  She 
thought  of  her  baby  waking  and  finding  none  there  in  that 
room.  She  heard  its  cry,  calling  to  her  across  the  headlands. 
When  she  turned  to  look  behind  her,  there  was  no  escape. 
Only  the  sheer  height  of  the  cliff — death  everywhere  about 
her. 

The  truth  came  then  at  last  with  a  loud  cry  of  her  voice 
out  of  that  black  secret  hidden  in  her  heart.  With  words 
that  flung  upon  each  other  in  their  speed  to  be  free  and  out 
of  the  resentful  prison  of  her  soul,  she  thrust  upon  him  the 
story  of  all  that  had  happened  her  that  night  in  the  Gap 
of  Doon. 

"Faeries !"  she  cried  at  him.  "Is  it  fools  ye  are  the  lot  of 
ye  and  ye  thinkin'  when  women  lose  their  wits  'tis  the  faeries 
have  them  taken !  Shure,  God  help  ye !  Aren't  there  mightier 
things  in  life  to  be  frettin'  the  souls  of  us  than  Themselves 
or  any  wispy  sight  or  sound  ye'd  be  hearin'  on  a  dark  night !" 
She  leant  back  against  the  rock  with  her  eyes  spent  in  their 
terror  watching  his  face  to  see  the  truth  strike  him  back. 

During  all  that  time,  while  she  had  been  speaking,  he  had 
stood,  waiting  as  he  listened,  with  the  knife  open  and  ready 
in  his  hand.  Not  until  she  had  finished  and  the  sound  of  the 
last  word  had  gone  from  her  lips  did  he  move.  She  heard 
him  laugh. 

"D'ye  think  ye  can  make  me  believe  the  turn  of  a  tale  like 
that?"  he  said  slowly,  "with  all  the  things  that  have  hap- 
pened me  since  ye  came  back,  and  Michael  Kelleher  lying 
there  a  dead  man  up  in  the  grave-yard!  Is  it  turnin'  the 
world  upside  down  ye'd  be,  with  a  lie  on  ye're  lips  is  the  like 
of  that?" 

If  it  was  the  truth  she  had  told  him,  it  was  a  greater  truth 
she  herself  was  facing  now.  Here  was  the  power — the  power 


334  THE  MIRACLE 

of  their  faith,  that  had  pursued  and  driven  her  in  her  pre- 
sentiments to  this. 

He  believed — he  still  believed.  All  of  them,  were  she 
to  shout  it  in  the  village  street,  they  would  still  believe.  It 
was  not  the  truth  of  circumstance  that  mattered ! 

As  he  laid  his  hand  on  her,  all  thought  fled  from  her  mind 
and  left  her  to  the  terror  of  his  first  touch  upon  her  arm. 
Her  voice  lifted  to  that  same  shrilling  cry.  She  struggled 
and  beat  her  hands  upon  his  head  and  face  as  his  arms 
bound  about  her. 

His  thought  only  was  to  use  his  knife.  Then  suddenly  it 
seemed  to  him  in  her  strength  and  the  sound  in  her  voice  he 
was  fighting  against  some  power  the  darkness  of  which  even 
that  sunlight  could  neither  penetrate  nor  dispel.  As  he  felt 
her  hands  beating  against  his  face,  the  sight  of  his  reason 
went  from  him.  He  lifted  her  from  her  feet  and  flung  her 
down.  Death  was  the  only  way  to  rid  himself  of  the  evil  he 
felt  about  him. 

She  fell  away  from  the  thrust  of  his  hands.  It  was  death 
he  was  wishing  for  her  then,  and  down  that  three  hundred 
feet  onto  the  rocks  below,  she  fell  into  the  long,  waiting 
arms  of  it. 


VIII 

FENNEL  sat  mending  his  net  on  the  sea-wall,  but  there 
was  no  moment  while  he  worked  that  his  thoughts 
were  wholly  with  what  he  was  doing.     Again  and 
again  across  the  listening  ear  of  his  memory,  he  heard  the 
voice  of  Mary  claiming  the  witness  of  God  that  she  loved 
him  now. 

It  was  early  morning  for  any  of  them  to  be  sitting  out 
there  on  the  wall.  All  but  Fennel  himself  in  Ardnashiela 
had  the  name  for  laziness.  Only  the  old  man  from  the 
islands  above  the  coast  of  Galway  was  there  for  company 
with  him  because  it  was  a  poor  house  he  lived  in  and  there 
was  more  pleasure  for  him  to  be  sitting  out  there  on  a  warm 
day  than  by  the  empty  grate  in  his  little  room. 

Sometimes  there  was  a  song  below  the  spoken  sound  of 
Fennel's  voice  as  he  worked,  and  between  the  lagging  inter- 
ludes of  their  talk  the  old  man  watched  him,  listening  to  his 
song,  with  an  enquiring  expression  in  his  face. 

"Ye've  a  song  in  yeer  heart,"  said  he  presently. 

The  fisherman  did  not  look  up  from  the  twine  he  was 
knotting. 

"Why  wouldn't  I?"  he  replied. 

"Aren't  ye  feared  at  all  the  harm  might  be  comin'  to  ye, 
with  herself  in  and  out  of  the  house?" 

"I  am  not." 

"Well,  God  save  ye  from  it,  for  ye're  the  most  deservin' 
man  in  this  mean  corner  of  a  place." 

Fennel  laid  down  his  net  on  the  wall. 

335 


336  THE  MIRACLE 

"Were'nt  we  all  say  in'  here  wan  time,"  said  he,  "  'twas 
those  only  had  a  poor  content  with  themselves  would  be 
troubled  with  the  harm  might  be  comin'  to  them  ?  Didn't  ye 
tell  us  of  wan  yeerself,  was  cot  away  by  a  woman  he  saw 
singin'  to  him  in  the  water  and  when  it  was  three  years  he'd 
gone  away  with  her,  wasn't  he  comin'  back  as  discontented 
with  himself  as  ever,  the  way  he  took  no  care  of  his  house 
at  all  and  the  water  drippin'  in  through  the  roof  of  it  ?" 

"I  mind  that  well  indeed,"  said  the  old  man,  "for  'twas 
a  man  in  Gal  way.  Didn't  I  see  him  meself  sittin'  at  the  door 
of  his  house  in  the  sleeves  of  his  shirt  and  they  torn  on  him !" 

"  'Twas  those  would  be  like  that  are  troubled,"  said  Fennel, 
"and  'tis  not  that  way  I  am  meself  at  all.  Haven't  I  a  child 
up  there  in  the  house  and  herself  with  a  great  kindness  is 
about  her  at  all  times?" 

"Maybe  'tis  not  believin*  in  Them  one  way  or  another 
ye  are?" 

Fennel  laid  his  net  down  and  stood  up  from  the  wall — the 
more  he  talked  of  her,  the  more  he  heard  her  words  that  she 
loved  him,  and  he  was  thinking  now  it  was  a  poor  thing  in 
him  to  have  gone  away  from  her  then  when  she  had  wished 
him  to  stay.  Had  she  not  made  her  heart  open  as  it  were  for 
him  to  be  hiding  in  it? 

"Yirra,  what  would  I  be  believin'  in  at  all,"  he  said,  as  he 
stood  there  high  above  the  old  man  and  looked  down  at  the 
withered  waste  of  the  body  he  was  carrying  to  its  grave,  "if 
it  wasn't  believin'  in  Themselves  I  was?  But  isn't  it  kind 
They  are  as  well  as  cruel  and  if  there's  anything  at  all  I  have 
lying  with  a  fear  in  me  heart,  'tis  Themselves  takin'  her  back 
again  for  the  sweet  kindness  there  is  in  her." 

It  was  a  fear  that  was  not  deep  in  him  then,  for  the  old 
man  could  hear  the  song  in  his  voice  as  he  walked  back  to  his 
house  up  the  cliff  road.  Even  when  a  few  minutes  later 


THE  MIRACLE  337 

he  opened  the  door  and  found  the  room  empty  of  her,  and 
the  child  asleep  on  their  bed,  there  was  no  thought  of  fear 
in  him.  She  had  gone  out.  She  had  taken  his  advice  and 
was  away  on  the  headlands  maybe,  and  for  a  moment  he 
thought  of  following  her  there  to  say,  if  he  could  find  the 
words  for  it,  that  he  was  ashamed  of  himself  to  be  leaving 
her  that  morning  with  the  sweet  sound  of  her  love  she  had 
left  in  his  ears. 

It  was  even  to  the  door  he  was  going  when  the  baby  woke 
at  the  sharp  sound  of  his  moving  in  the  room.  It  woke  with 
the  tremor  of  a  cry  and  he  came  back  to  it.  She  would  wish 
that,  more  than  his  going  out  there  to  meet  her.  He  sat 
down  on  the  side  of  the  bed  and  tried  to  soothe  it  in  its 
crying.  But  still  it  cried  and  tossed  where  it  lay,  so  that  he 
knew  somehow  it  was  the  want  of  the  feeling  of  hands  about 
it  that  it  had,  and  nothing  would  quieten  it  till  it  felt  the 
warmth  and  rest  of  a  body's  arms  to  be  lying  in. 

With  timid  hands,  he  took  it  up.  To  the  best  of  his 
memory,  he  tried  to  hold  it  as  he  had  seen  her  do.  Bringing 
it  then  to  the  doorway  where  the  sun  fell,  he  sat  down  on 
the  sill.  With  constant  misgivings  he  placed  it  upon  his  knee, 
and  looked  into  the  blue  circle  of  its  eyes. 

"Shure,  I  don't  want  anything  more  human  than  yeerself ," 
he  said  to  it.  "D'ye  hear  that  ?  Isn't  it  mine  ye  are  ?  Didn't 
she  put  ye  in  me  arms  the  other  day?  And  what  was  that 
but  herself  knowin'  it  with  the  love  was  comin'  to  her  that 
time?" 

The  blue  eyes  looked  back  into  his  own.  A  twinkle  spread 
about  them.  Then  there  came  three  bubbles  of  a  laugh  splut- 
tering out  of  the  corners  of  its  lips.  Fennel  laughed  with  it. 
Out  of  the  voice  of  his  gladness  then  came  the  sound  of  the 
song  he  had  been  singing  all  that  morning  beneath  his 
breath — 


338  THE  MIRACLE 

"Knock  at  the  door  of  a  white  thorn  tree 
Lift  up  the  latch  and  cry 

'Are  you  there — are  you  there  ?    My  love  is  gone. 
Have  you  heard  her  feet  go  by  ?'  " 

He  had  heard  her  sing  it  as  women  do  to  suit  their  love. 
And  he  sang  it  himself  as  a  man  would  to  suit  his  own — 

"Have  ye  heard  her  steps  go  by  ?" 
(i) 

THE  END 


Popular  Appleton  Fiction 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

By  E.  Temple  Thurston 
Author  of  "The  City  of  Beautiful  Nonsense,"  etc. 

A  powerful  story  of  a  great  passion  and  of  a  woman  who  was  not  afraid  of 
life.  Much  interest  has  been  aroused  by  this  portrayal  of  a  woman'* 
struggle  for  romance. 

THE  AGE  OF   INNOCENCE 

By  Edith  JTharton 
Author  of  "The  House  of  Mirth,"  "The  Reef."  etc. 

The  novel  about  New  York  society  that  won  the  $1,000  Pulitzer  Prize 
as  the  novel  of  the  year  best  representing  "the  highest  standard  of 
American  manners  and  manhood." 

MISS  LULU  BETT 

By  Zona  Gale 

Shows  American  life  as  it  is.  In  a  household  typical  of  every  town  in 
the  country,  Miss  Lulu  Bett,  "the  unmarried  sister"  was  the  drudge. 
Read  "Miss  Lulu  Bett"  as  a  novel  or  in  its  play  form  (winner  of  the 
$  1,000  Pulitzer  Prize  as  the  best  American  play  of  the  year). 

CARTER  And  Other  People 

By  Don  Marquis 
Author  of  "Noah  an'  Jonah  an'  Cap'n  John  Smith,"  " Hermione,"  "Prefaces,"  etc. 

Short  stories  about  subjects  ranging  from  the  tragedy  of  race  to  the 
comedy  of  a  hero  who  did  not  know  he  was  one,  each  presenting  a  vivid 
slice  of  life. 

LOW  CEILINGS 

By  W.  Douglas  Newton 
Author  of  "Green  Ladies,"  etc. 

A  young  fellow  tries  to  make  the  most  of  himself,  but  is  tied  down  by 
the  suburban  narrowness  of  his  environment.  An  interesting  plot 
shows  two  women  as  representing  the  best  and  worst  that  is  in  him. 

These  Are  Appleton  Books 

T699 


A  CHOICE  SHELF  OF  NOVELS 


ABBE  PIERRE 

By  JAY  WILLIAM  HUDSON 

This  charming  novel  of  life  in  quaint  Gascony  is 
proving  that  a  novel  that  is  a  work  of  truest  art  can 
be  a  best  seller  of  the  widest  popularity. 

WAY  OF  REVELATION 

By  WILFRID  EWART 

A  realistic  novel  of  the  great  war  which  presents  with 
startling  truth  and  accuracy  the  effect  of  the  conflict 
upon  a  group  of  intensely  interesting  characters. 

THE  MERCY  OF  ALLAH 

By   HILAIRE   BELLOC,   Author   of   "The   Path   to 

Rome,"  etc. 

A  brilliant  and  highly  entertaining  satire  on  modern 
business,  which  tells  of  how  Mahmoud,  by  the  Mercy 
of  Allah  and  his  own  keen  wits,  accumulated  a  vast 
fortune. 

THE  RICH  LITTLE  POOR  BOY 

By  ELEANOR  GATES,  Author  of  "The  Poor  Little 

Rich  Girl,"  etc. 

A  whimsical,  humorous  fantasy  of  a  poor  little  boy's 
search  for  happiness. 

MOTHER 

By  MAXIM  GORKY.     Introduction  by  Charles  Ed- 
ward Russell. 
Wide  interest  is  being  displayed  in  Gorky's  story  of 

Russia  before  the  Revolution. 


D.  APPLBTON  AND  COMPANY 
New  York  London 

T714 


ft  OB 

I  <f-  Cr  VO 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  766  779     3 


